


The Truth Is

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Anger Management, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Templars (Dragon Age), Child Neglect, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dark Ritual, Developing Relationship, Dragon Age: Origins Quest - Morrigan's Ritual, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Learning to trust, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mabari, Mutual Pining, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, mabari trying to take over my story, references to past suicidal thoughts - Freeform, that would be Daylen, that would be alistair, that would be alistair again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 134,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22788028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: Daylen has no reason to trust this former almost-templar he's gotten stuck with. He's not sure why he finds himself doing it anyway, but while he's figuring that out, what's the harm in the two of them spending more time together?Or: Daylen hastrustanger issues, Alistair has abandonment issues, and Zevran and Leliana are  happy they're working through all that but would really like them to just kiss already. Barkspawn doesn't care, so long as they're petting her.*************************************This story started life as draft 1 of"To Resist and to Yield,"so if the dynamic feels similar, it's not your imagination. :) Fair warning, the D/s aspects in this one aren't nearly as overt (sorry?), Alistair is less subby, and Daylen is about the softest Dom ever. All of which is barely relevant until the last chapter anyway. :P
Relationships: Alistair/Male Amell (Dragon Age), Warden & Warden's Mabari (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai & Warden
Comments: 353
Kudos: 266





	1. Don't Look Back

**Author's Note:**

> you call me POWERFUL and you mean:  
> without mercy, sharp fists and sharp heart,  
> the rage of mountains when they tremble.  
> you call me STRONG and you mean:  
> unshakeable, unbreakable, unkillable. 
> 
> i wound myself up like clockwork just to  
> make it true, turned myself into an earthquake  
> just to shatter the mountains inside of me.  
> you called me BRAVE and i realized that  
> the things i’m most afraid of are living in me. 
> 
> the truth is, when you say POWER you mean  
> STRENGTH and when you say STRENGTH  
> you mean: don’t look weak, don’t feel weak,  
> walk high, punch hard, don’t look back, don’t  
> look back, don’t look back, don’t look back 
> 
> the truth is, everyone looks back.  
> the truth is, i started shaking one morning  
> and i never really stopped. the truth is,  
> i want to be the sea at storm, wild and vicious  
> and beautiful in its power but all i am –
> 
> – is what you mean when you say FRAGILE  
> when you mark a human being DON’T TOUCH  
> or she’ll BREAK you, what you mean when you  
> draw lines in the sand and on one side are those  
> in glass houses and on the other are those with stones.  
> you say EARTHQUAKE and you mean:  
> natural disaster, the gods striking down,  
> something too powerful for mortals to escape  
> but when i say EARTHQUAKE i mean:  
> i’m shaking, but i can still fight.  
> i’m scared, but i’m still going.  
> i’m sorry, but i’m still here.
> 
> m.j. pearl, ["the gods got nothing on me"](https://fairytalesques.tumblr.com/post/164613533910/you-call-me-powerful-and-you-mean-without-mercy)

When he meets Alistair for the first time, Daylen Amell hates and fears him in equal measure. Both emotions are instinctive and immediate, twisting through him the moment he's close enough to recognize the lyrium-taint, to realize that the man he's been sent to find is a templar. The Maker's only grace is that the templar in question is so absorbed in his conversation with another mage, he doesn't notice Daylen at first.

Daylen's fingers tighten on his staff, gripping the wood as if it were someone's neck. He can't say who it is he wants to throttle more: this man for being a templar, or Duncan for being so thoughtless as to send a mage on such an errand. Possibly both of them. His heart tries to simultaneously drop into his stomach and block his throat, fear amplified by surprise. It's not that he'd thought his life would be forevermore free of templars; he just hadn't expected...this. Alistair may lack Duncan's rank among the Grey Wardens, but he is a full Warden, and that puts him above a lowly recruit in all the ways that matter.

Having a templar above him in any way was not a position Daylen ever thought he would have to suffer again. Though if Alistair is a Grey Warden, wouldn't that make him a _former_ templar?

Daylen snorts internally, dismissing the idea as soon as he's thought it. Once a templar, always a templar, and no mage would be foolish enough to think otherwise.

Too focused on his fear and anger, Daylen doesn't notice that Alistair's conversation has gone poorly until the other mage shoves past him with a muttered, "Get out of my way, fool."

Daylen blinks after him, taken aback and feeling a little abandoned. At least with someone else present--even if that someone was "just" a mage--he had some small measure of protection. Even the nastier templars generally hid the worst of their abuses from the eyes of witnesses. Now there's no one to see, whatever Alistair decides to do.

Behind Daylen, Alistair sighs and says with blatant insincerity, "You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

Daylen swings back around to stare at him. "Sorry, what?"

Alistair shrugs. "Oh, nothing. Just trying to find a bright side to all this." And then, before Daylen can think of a response to _that_ , Alistair adds, "Wait, we haven't met, have we? I don't suppose you happen to be Duncan's new recruit? The mage?"

Lying would be pointless, so Daylen keeps his face smooth and says coolly, "I am. Will that be a problem," he pauses just long enough for emphasis, "templar?"

"Oh, I'm not a templar," Alistair says with a friendly smile Daylen doesn't return.

"Really?" It's barely a question.

"Really," Alistair assures him. "I was training as a templar before Duncan recruited me to the Wardens, about six months ago, but I never took the final vows."

The hum of power around Alistair, currently dormant but capable of smiting a mage at any moment, makes a lie of his denial. Whether he took vows or not, he's templar enough.

"Anyway," Alistair says, still with that bright smile, "I'm Alistair."

"I know," Daylen says, his flat tone all the flatter for its proximity to Alistair's enthusiasm. Withholding his name is as pointless as lying about being a mage, but he doesn't have to like it. "I'm Daylen."

"Pleased to meet you," Alistair says, and he sounds like he means it. "We should get back to Duncan, but we can talk on the way."

Now more confused than afraid, Daylen falls into step as Alistair sets off toward the Grey Warden's camp. As they walk, Alistair chatters on with barely any prompting from Daylen, seeming more the boy with every step. The weight of that chatter smothers the last of Daylen's fear, and by the time they're halfway to camp, he can't imagine how he was ever afraid of Alistair.

Not that Daylen trusts him. Kinloch had its share of charming templars: smiling bastards who seduced rather than took outright, as if any such seduction wasn't irrevocably tainted by the templar's power. Whatever lies such templars told themselves, Daylen saw little difference except--perhaps--in the number of bruises left behind.

He lets his fear of Alistair die, but the anger...the anger he banks like a fire, ready to burn when he needs it.

###

Daylen's first sight of a darkspawn is exactly as awful as Alistair told him it would be, and the fight that follows is worse, but they get the blood they need and get back to camp only a little the worse for wear. Well, at least physically. Daylen expects to see genlocks tonight in his dreams, to hear their growls and smell their stink as they bear down on him, shrugging off his spells the way the real ones didn't.

He doesn't get any time for those nightmares to fade before he has another set to keep him awake. For all the cruel and terrible things he's seen templars inflict on mages, there's a different kind of horror to seeing soldiers die by the hundreds, to watching people he knows fall beneath darkspawn claws and teeth and axes, to feeling blood spatter across his face as someone dies to protect him.

By the time they leave Flemeth's hut behind, he has fuel for three lifetimes' worth of nightmares.

When he isn't sweating through one of those nightmares, mostly what he feels is angry. Angry at the darkspawn for bringing the Blight to Ferelden. Angry at Duncan for dragging him into this fight. Angry at Alistair for stepping back and leaving Daylen to lead, when he's never led so much as a midnight raid on Kinloch's library. And most of all, angry at the templars for making Kinloch into such a hell that he can't even fantasize about what his life would have been like if Duncan hadn't conscripted him. He'll take the darkspawn over the templars any day, and he reminds himself of that as he slogs through the forest in Morrigan's wake.

For all her sharp tongue, she's an excellent guide, and they quickly pass beyond the Blight's current border, into as-yet-undisturbed forest. When they camp for the night, it's in a spot as beautiful as any painting. Daylen sits by their tiny fire and watches Alistair play with the mabari that insists on following them, and for the first time in weeks, the muscles in his neck loosen just a bit.

It's hard not to smile at the image Alistair and the mabari make, both so excited and carefree. Morrigan has several uncomplimentary comparisons to make between the two, but Daylen ignores her and Alistair apparently can't hear her over his own steady stream of, "Who's a good girl? You! You're a good girl, yes you are!"

Morrigan eventually settles into indeterminate grumbling, leaving Daylen to enjoy his evening's entertainment in peace. And it is quite entertaining. The mabari appears completely recovered from her earlier illness, and she jumps around with her tongue lolling and tail waving happily. She doesn't bark--as if Daylen needed more proof of how smart mabari are, she seems to know how dangerous it is to make too much noise--but that's the only sign she gives that anything might be wrong. Even her occasional growl sounds happy.

Watching her play, it's impossible to avoid watching the human she's playing with. Alistair shed his armor earlier, in pursuit of a bath before he got distracted, and now he's wrestling her in just breeches and a light shirt that are both sweat-damp and clinging. He has a very nice ass, it turns out, and Daylen admires it as Alistair bends over to croon into the mabari's face and rub roughly at her ears.

Alistair straightens from his latest round of endearments, but the mabari apparently isn't done with him. She dances far enough away to give herself room to jump, and then jump she does, straight at Alistair, knocking him flat on his back. If the fall didn't leave him windless, her weight as she follows him down certainly does. Her teeth close lightly around his throat, a nonverbal "I win!" rather than a threat.

"Yield," Alistair wheezes out, tapping her shoulder lightly with one hand, the same as he might with a human opponent. "I yield."

She gives a satisfied growl and waits a breath longer, her teeth still resting lightly against his throat. Gloating, Daylen realizes, and he grins despite himself.

Alistair shoves her off good-naturedly and sits up, rubbing at his throat and the red marks her teeth left behind. Pressure-marks, nothing more: she didn't break the skin or even scratch him. Since Alistair's free hand is tugging gently at one of her ears as he tells her again what a brave strong girl she is, his hand on his throat is probably instinct more than pain.

Daylen isn't nearly so blasé. He can't tear his eyes away from those marks, and it isn't a mabari's teeth he's thinking of. What would it be like to sink his own teeth into Alistair's throat? Not to draw blood, just to leave marks of his own, the dark imprint of his teeth against the muscled line of Alistair's neck. What would his skin taste like?

Daylen licks his lips without thinking, and that jolts him back to himself with an unpleasant lurch. He looks away hurriedly and reminds himself that Alistair's skin would taste disgusting: sweat and road dust and hints of metal from his armor, all with a lovely coating of mabari drool. If Alistair would even let him try, which seems highly unlikely.

 _And did you forget he's a templar?_ Daylen asks himself sarcastically. _That small little detail?_

Alistair's willingness and the possible taste of his skin are both irrelevant, because Daylen never intends to get close enough to test either.

Angry at himself for being a fool and at Alistair for provoking him, Daylen snaps at the mabari, "Barkspawn, here!"

Only after he's said it does he realize what he's done, and hard on the heels of that realization is another. Up until now, he's avoided calling the mabari anything except "you" and "the dog," as if naming her is an admission that he wants to keep her. Like most Circle mages, he learned young not to want anything too much, or to at least hide it when he does.

But now, not only has he named her, he's used the name Alistair suggested half-jokingly this morning.

 _Maker, save me from myself,_ he thinks, the words acid even in silence. _Because I don't appear to be up to the task._

The mabari bounds over to him, happily obedient, and snuffles at his hair with enough enthusiasm to almost knock him over. It gives him an unexpected burst of pleasure, that she abandoned Alistair so readily to come when Daylen called. Alistair is the one who plays with her, after all, and usually the one who feeds her. Daylen barely pets her, too afraid of getting attached to something--someone--who'll be taken away soon enough. Since the moment she looked up at him out of dazed, pleading eyes, he's wanted her to be his, wanted to be hers, wanted to live every stupid tale told by every stupid bard about mabari and their masters.

Mages don't get to live those tales, not when templars are around.

There's only the one templar here, though, and what can he do to Daylen? He can't take away anything of Daylen's, much less a creature with a mind and will of her own. It's clear she would have something to say about it if Alistair tried, no matter who plays with her.

 _Mine,_ Daylen thinks with wonder, and loops an arm around her neck. Whatever Alistair thinks, she's Daylen's.

Chin already coming up in a challenge, he looks over at Alistair, only to find that Alistair is grinning at him. His expression might be a little wistful, but there's no resentment in it.

"Barkspawn, huh?" Alistair says. "So the Maker came back when I wasn't looking?"

When Alistair suggested the name this morning, Daylen's response had been more quelling than tactful. Which means that now, he either needs to think of another name very fast, or swallow his pride and try not to choke on it.

Alistair laughs, the sound as open and free of malice as his earlier smile. Even Daylen, intent on finding a reason to stay mad, can't hear it as anything other than friendly. Laughing with him rather than at him.

Daylen ducks his face down into Barkspawn's shoulder to hide his smile. "Weren't you going to wash up?" he asks, trying to make the words bite.

They make much the same impact as Barkspawn's teeth on Alistair's throat a minute ago. And Maker, Daylen really doesn't need to be thinking of Alistair's throat again.

A little of his irritation returns, and he says with more force, "I'm not saving you any supper, if you're not ready when it is."

Since Alistair is still chuckling to himself as he heads for the tiny stream that cuts across one end of their camp, Daylen doesn't think his threat sounded credible. With Barkspawn's tail sweeping the ground by his feet, he can't find it in him to care.

Instead, he reaches behind himself, back where the leaves remain undisturbed, and finds a stick. It's a bit small, but it will have to do.

"Look," he murmurs to the dog, unconsciously matching the tone he's heard Alistair use on her, "look what I've got."

He waves the stick in front of her, then throws it as hard as he can away from them. His aim is good and it flies between the nearest trees rather than into one. His strength is less impressive: the stick goes perhaps half as far as when Alistair threw it.

But Barkspawn tears after it with just as much enthusiasm, snatching up the stick to race back to him with it. It looks even smaller now that it's between her teeth, laughably breakable, but she drops it at his feet marked with nothing more than a little dog spit. So Daylen obliges her, throwing it again, and again, and again, until his arm and shoulder ache.

Switching to his other arm doesn't work--he's weaker on that side, his aim worse--and he has to drop the stick to the ground with a sigh. It's now covered in far more than a little spit, but only a few tooth marks show on the bark. Daylen saw the marks she left on the larger stick Alistair was throwing for her and knows she made a special effort to avoid breaking this one.

"Who's a good girl?" he asks her, and she sits a little straighter, preening.

"Ugh," Morrigan says. "As if one of you wasn't bad enough."

"You're just jealous," Alistair says. He finished washing a while ago and took over watching their supper without comment, leaving Daylen free to throw the stick. Now he gives Daylen a sly, conspiratorial smile, like the two of them are in on a joke.

Unsure how he feels about that, Daylen lets himself be distracted by Barkspawn sprawling out at his feet, her tongue hanging and sides heaving as she pants for breath. Her ears prick up when Alistair passes Daylen's supper over her head, but she doesn't grab for it, apparently content to lie there drooling on Daylen's boots while he eats.

He's mostly done eating when Alistair whistles softly. Daylen turns toward him, a frown forming at the rudeness, only to realize Alistair is trying to get Barkspawn's attention, not his.

"Come here, girl," Alistair says. He's finished his own supper and has one hand stretched out, fingers twitching as if he's already scratching under the dog's chin. "Who's my good girl?"

 _She's mine, not yours,_ Daylen wants to snap, but he doesn't. He categorically refuses to get in a power struggle with Alistair over a dog, especially when he still isn't sure who would win.

Barkspawn cocks her head at Alistair, then turns back to Daylen, her eyebrows drawing in and up as she gives him an entreating look. Wanting to go but asking his permission, Maker fucking save him.

He jerks his chin in less-than-gracious assent and shoves food into his mouth to keep his foot out of it. If he were in a contest with Alistair for her affection--which he's _not_ \--then this round went to Daylen when she asked his permission. What happens now doesn't matter, or so he tells himself.

Then his bad mood is spoiled and he chokes on that ill-considered mouthful of food as Barkspawn thrashes herself around to drape her hindquarters over Alistair's boots without moving her head off Daylen's. It leaves her on her belly, stretched out further than can possibly be comfortable. She looks so ridiculous Daylen would laugh if he could do it without spraying food across camp.

Alistair has no such limitation, and his laugh is warm and delighted. In the firelit shadows of evening, the sound is too close and too intimate.

Daylen swallows hard to clear his throat and pretends the effort has nothing to do with anything except his near brush with choking. Very carefully not look at Alistair, he says to Barkspawn, "You have no dignity, do you?"

She whuffles happily at him, eyes closing in pleasure as Alistair leans down to scratch along her spine. Fool dog.

Daylen doesn't smile, but it's a near thing. He busies himself with eating to hide whatever traces of the expression might be visible in the firelight.

Silence stretches out around the camp, broken only by the occasional pop as the fire finds a knot in the wood, and by the soft _skritch-skritch_ of Alistair's blunt nails on Barkspawn's fur. Beyond their small circle of light, the forest is alive with sounds Daylen is learning to recognize as normal. Even Morrigan is quiet.

Daylen relaxes into the silence, amazed that he can. An entire country wants them dead, there's a darkspawn horde on their heels, and the first Blight in centuries is being ignored by everyone who should be preparing themselves to fight it. He's aware of all that, every thought edged with the kind of pervasive fear that will leak into his dreams tonight. He's afraid of what will happen if they fail.

If he fails. That's the heart of the fear and the reason he wants to laugh, both at the same time. If they fail, it will be because of him, because he made a mistake: took the wrong path, said the wrong thing, made the wrong decision at some crucial moment.

But it will be _his_ decision. Barkspawn will follow him, Morrigan will follow the Grey Wardens, and Alistair has done everything but run away screaming to avoid being put in charge. For the first time in Daylen's life, he only has to choose their direction for it to become reality. No need to explain, or cajole, or bargain.

Though whatever he's choosing, he needs to do it soon. Back at Flemeth's hut, they discussed the treaties briefly, then set the topic aside as irrelevant until they reached Lothering. Which is bearing down on them--or they're bearing down on it--very rapidly, and Daylen hasn't given the matter any more thought than he had when they left Flemeth.

Thinking about it now, his thoughts go first to the Circle. He never wanted to go back to Kinloch Hold, but with the treaties in hand, he could do it in…well, if not in triumph, then certainly in power. No begging or cajoling needed there, either, and it stirs something savage and gleeful in his chest, the thought of their faces when they realize it. Let them feel the smothering despair of trying to bargain with someone who has all the power.

Or at least, that's what he tries to tell himself. While the vision is satisfying, Daylen can't believe it will go so smoothly. What can two Grey Wardens, one apostate, and one mabari do if the templars refuse to honor the treaty? Daylen has no authority except what he can make them believe he has, and deep in his heart, he doesn't think he can do it.

Kinloch Hold isn't the only option, of course. Alistair wants to go straight from Lothering to Redcliffe, and certainly it would strengthen Daylen's position to arrive at Ferelden's Circle with Arl Eamon's support. If Daylen does take them to Redcliffe first, it's not as if Alistair will try to use that as a lever to take control of the group. Alistair had his chance to lead, and he gave it up happily. Still, Daylen can't quite bring himself to give in. It's petty, he knows it's petty, but so long as he has other choices, he can pretend it's not.

Orzammar would be a good choice, if there was a road to it that didn't pass either Redcliffe or Kinloch Hold. Daylen will have a hard time pretending he isn't afraid or being petty if they walk right by somewhere they need to go eventually. Which leaves...

"The Brecilian Forest," he says, though he hadn't meant to speak aloud.

Alistair and Morrigan both jump; Barkspawn just cocks an ear in his direction without opening her eyes.

"Once we leave Lothering," Daylen says, trying to sound as if he meant to start this conversation rather than tripping himself into it, "we'll go east to forest."


	2. What You Mean When You Say Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the moment anyway, I'm taking all the chapter titles from [the poem that gave me the title for the whole story.](https://fairytalesques.tumblr.com/post/164613533910/you-call-me-powerful-and-you-mean-without-mercy) We'll see how long that lasts. I sense great regret in my future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple notes on relevant head-canons:  
> 1\. At least for the purposes of this story, templar powers require at least occasional lyrium use, so Alistair is taking lyrium. It's not a big deal in the story, but it is mentioned in a couple places.
> 
> 2\. Again for the purposes of this story, I changed the healing magic up a bit. For a game, it's perfectly fine, but I wanted to make it a little more fraught here, if for no other reason than to explain how it is people have scars and permanent injuries. This will be much important than the lyrium. (cue evil laugh)

In Lothering, Daylen almost wishes someone else _was_ responsible for everything. How is he supposed to know whether he can rely on a bard who claims to have had a vision straight from the Maker? Worse, how does he know whether he can trust this "Qunari" who killed half a dozen farmers in a rage brought on by nothing more than waking up without his sword, then waited passively to be arrested for the crime? Though of the two, he's more comfortable with the Qunari: rage is something he understands. Blessings from the Maker, on the other hand, haven't been much a part of his life.

Camp their first night out from Lothering is tense and strange. Daylen talks a bit with Leliana and Sten, trying to learn more about them, but mostly what he learns is that the two of them are almost as different from each other as it's possible to be. When Leliana's religious fervor and Sten's aggressive bluntness get to be too much, Daylen retreats to the edge of camp where Barkspawn is gnawing on a stick. She looks up hopefully when he approaches, and he smiles at her.

"All right," he says, mock sternly, "but just for a little bit." Supper is nearly ready, and he's starving.

He throws the stick for a while, telling Barkspawn what a good girl she is when she catches it in midair and generally not-thinking as hard as he can. The quiet is soothing the way he suspects camp won't ever be again. It was a small miracle when three people and a dog were all quiet; adding two more people, one of them a bard, is going to take that from miraculous to impossible.

Alistair ruins the peaceful quiet before Daylen is ready, and worse, he brings Daylen's supper to him rather than simply calling him to the fire. Not that the templars at Kinloch Hold ever did anything so deferential as serve food to mages, but there was a subset who were less cruel and more patronizing. They saw mages as children to be cared for, incapable of making their own decisions or looking after themselves.

 _"I can feed myself,"_ he wants to snap at Alistair but doesn't. There are enough personality clashes in camp already, and Daylen is trying not to be the kind of leader who contributes to that sort of problem.

Instead, he accepts the bowl with a curt nod, trying to turn the exchange from Alistair taking care of him to Alistair serving him. A subordinate performing a task for his commander, rather than a father caring for a small child.

Unconcerned or oblivious, Alistair crouches down to pet Barkspawn and let her lick his face. That's disgusting enough to distract Daylen from his annoyance. He knows where that tongue has been.

"Doing all right?" Alistair asks eventually, once he's told Barkspawn about a hundred times what a good girl she is and asked her if her feet hurt from walking and if she found enough rabbits to eat and whether she has a good place to sleep tonight.

That asking about Daylen's well-being comes second to asking about the dog's is more relief than anything. Daylen's welfare isn't anyone's concern but his own.

Alistair, unfortunately, doesn't seem to feel the same, because the next night, he does it again, bringing supper to Daylen rather than letting Daylen come to the fire to get it himself. When he does it the following night, after a long day made longer by a skirmish with darkspawn that's left Daylen bruised and sore, Daylen loses his temper.

"Stop it," he snaps at Alistair, who blinks at him in surprise, the bowl still held out between them. "I know where the food is, and I can get it for myself. I don't need you to take care of me."

"I-" Alistair stutters, pulling the bowl back to his chest. "I'm sorry?"

Daylen clamps his teeth shut on his first three responses, which leaves him only, "Well, now you know."

Embarrassment obvious even in the dim twilight, Alistair retreats to the fire with his shoulders hunched around his rejected offering. Daylen stares after him, jaw clenched, until someone says from his left, "He only wishes to help."

The judgmental tone would tell Daylen who it was even if he didn't recognize the voice. Sten, and where did he come from? Daylen would wonder how long he's been standing there, but the answer is obviously, "Too long."

Daylen turns toward him, restraining himself so the movement is slow rather than startled, and says as repressively as possible, "I can take care of myself." That he has to keep saying that makes him feel even more like a child, like a toddler insisting, "I do it!"

It does nothing to improve his mood.

"He wishes to serve," Sten says. Not patiently or impatiently, simply flat and factual, the way he says most things. "He is a soldier, and he knows his place."

At Kinloch Hold, mages born to noble families would talk about people knowing their place with a sneer Daylen usually wanted to smack from their faces. When Sten says it, the words are different. Daylen knows barely anything about the Qun, but he's already heard Sten on the subject of people knowing their place. He knows it applies equally to soldiers who want to be bakers as it does to people who want to rise about their station, and while he still thinks it's bullshit, it's bullshit that annoys him less than it might. At least it's even-handed in its oppression.

"What does taking care of me have to do with being a soldier?" Daylen asks, less hostile than before.

"You are his commander," Sten says. "It is his duty to serve you."

"No," Daylen says, "it's his duty to obey me."

Sten regards him impassively. "A good soldier knows that his commander must remain strong in order to lead."

It's not at all what Daylen was expecting, and it leaves him without a good answer. At last, he says grudgingly, "I'll give that some thought."

Sten gives him a curt nod--Sten does most things curtly--and moves past him to...

...pet Barkspawn?

A thread of amusement winds itself through Daylen's anger.

"You fought well today," Sten says to Barkspawn. "Strong and clever, as a true warrior should."

The thread of amusement grows, and Daylen turns his head away to hide the smile that's trying to come out. A childish part of him whines, _I'm not done being mad yet,_ but he ignores it.

"Have you found enough to eat today?" Sten is still talking to Barkspawn in his usual serious voice. "There was not much time for hunting."

Barkspawn barks once, softly, and it sounds like a yes.

"Good," Sten says.

Daylen has to walk away before he starts laughing, his anger faded back to its usual low burn, ready to flare up but no longer aimed at anyone in particular.

Which means that when he sees Alistair sitting alone, as far from anyone else as he can get and still remain within the camp, Daylen sighs and changes direction. He doesn't have to let Alistair take care of him, but he could have been politer about telling him to stop. Alistair has always been quick to do what Daylen asks, as if eager to prove that he's happy taking orders from a more junior Warden.

For the first time, Daylen wonders if he's over-estimated the amount of thought Alistair has given the situation. Not because Alistair is stupid--he isn't--but because he's not shown any inclination toward even so mild a form of manipulation. Alistair is straight-forward in everything he does, direct without Sten's bluntness or Morrigan's sharpness. Daylen might be unhappy in his shoes, but that doesn't mean Alistair is. Maybe Alistair's eagerness to follow Daylen's orders is nothing more or less than what it seems.

As Daylen gets closer, Alistair looks up and then turns quickly away, the shoulder closest to Daylen hunching up. Not quite fast enough: Daylen catches a glimpse of tears before the shadows hide them.

It makes Daylen feel both guilty and irritated. He was rude, yes, but surely that's not the first time in Alistair's life someone has snapped at him.

"I wanted to apologize," Daylen says awkwardly, coming close enough to keep his voice down. No need to draw anyone else's attention.

Alistair groans and slaps his hand over his face. "Andraste's ashes," he mutters, "you weren't supposed to see this."

"I'm sorry," Daylen offers, not sure what else to say.

"Gah, no!" Alistair says, hand pressing tightly over both eyes. "I'm not...you didn't...this isn't about…" he waves his free hand in Barkspawn's general direction, "...that."

A quick look around shows nowhere to sit except the ground, so Daylen lowers himself carefully down. After days of walking, his legs are sore and his knees stiff, never mind the bruises from this afternoon's fight. Getting back up will be an interesting problem, but it's a problem for later. For now, he sits just outside touching distance and asks, "So what is it about?"

"Nothing," Alistair says, bringing his other hand to his face so he can hide behind both. "I'm fine."

Daylen snorts in disbelief. What it lacks in tact, he can only hope it makes up for in directness.

Alistair's mouth curves in an unwilling smile, barely visible between the heels of his palms. "All right, I'm not fine, but it's not your problem."

 _"Well in that case, enjoy the rest of your evening,"_ is what Daylen thinks about saying.

 _You wanted to lead,_ the annoying part of him points out. _So lead._

"Maybe it's not my problem," Daylen says, choosing his words carefully, "but I'd like to help if I can."

"You can't," Alistair says. Despite the apparent finality of that, he goes on after a moment, "I was trying to treat you like I treated Duncan, and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

"You brought Duncan his supper every night?" Admittedly, Daylen hadn't known the man very long before he died, but he'd seemed the self-sufficient sort.

Alistair's shoulders do something that's half shrug, half brief hunch. "It just worked out that way. He was usually busy, and if I was getting some for myself, why not get some for him, too. It seemed like a good way to help." He rolls his lips between his teeth, then adds, "I like to be useful."

Interesting choice of words, that. Not helpful; useful. And perhaps Daylen is once again over-thinking Alistair's motivations--people are often imprecise with their words--but he files that sentence away for future study.

"So you were thinking about Duncan," Daylen says. "And you miss him."

It makes the tears vastly more understandable, if still a little surprising. Other than his brief outburst at Flemeth's hut, Alistair has said nothing about Duncan.

In hindsight, perhaps Daylen should have noticed that silence, and been suspicious of it.

"He was the first person to really care about what I wanted," Alistair says. "My whole life up to then was people deciding everything for me. Nobody asked if I wanted to be a templar, they just decided it was right for me."

 _"No one asked me if I wanted to go to Kinloch Hold,"_ Daylen doesn't say. And though technically they did ask if he wanted to be a Grey Warden, it barely counts as a choice when his other options were death or imprisonment.

Alistair scrubs his hands over his face and makes a pained noise. "Ugh, I'm sorry. Here I am whining about not having any choices, when you had it worse than I did."

Startled, Daylen blinks and reminds himself, _Not stupid._ The naïveté and boyish smiles--not to mention the unexpected tears--make it too easy to forget that.

"I didn't have any choice about being a mage," Daylen agrees, "but maybe that just means I understand what it's like, having other people decide everything for you." He thinks again of the choice Duncan offered him. Maybe it was barely one, but Duncan hadn't been required to offer even that much. Silence would have been easier for him. "Duncan was the first person to offer me a choice, too."

"He was a good man," Alistair says, voice thick.

If Alistair were a mage, Daylen would know what to do. Alistair seems to like physical contact, and so if he were a mage, Daylen would touch his knee or take his hand or put an arm around his shoulders. But he's not a mage, and Daylen's skin itches unpleasantly at the thought of touching a templar, even like that. At the same time, Alistair's grief is obvious, and Daylen feels like an asshole for withholding comfort from someone who's never done anything to him.

He compromises, shifting so his knee bumps lightly against Alistair's. It gets him a small smile, weak but grateful, and that helps calm the prickling under his skin.

After a moment's thought, he finds his place in the conversation. Duncan. Yes. He nudges Alistair's knee a little more firmly and says, "Tell me about him."

Then he just listens as Alistair does. The words are slow and stumbling at first, and half the time they catch in Alistair's throat. Daylen listens patiently, forcing himself not to interrupt, not to provide the words he thinks Alistair wants, not to look anywhere except at Alistair's face, and gradually, the halting flow of words becomes a flood. Alistair pours out story after story, and Daylen begins to realize exactly how much Alistair lost when Duncan died: friend, father, commander, personal protector and savior. All gone, leaving Alistair with only Daylen, who is many things but will never be Duncan.

Alistair winds down eventually, stories petering out until the two of them are sitting in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. It's surprisingly comfortable, sitting here alone in the near-dark with a templar so close. Of all the things Daylen is worried about, Alistair grabbing him is low on the list.

"Thanks," Alistair says eventually, his words dropping into the silence without breaking it. "And sorry about the...uhhh...that." He waves toward Barkspawn again, and Daylen realizes he means their earlier conversation. If that's even the word for something that lasted just long enough for Daylen to yell at him.

The easy quiet lingers between them, and this far from the fire, the darkness is thick. The two together allow Daylen to say, "There are templars who treat mages like children, and I, mm, might be oversensitive about that."

Alistair looks at him and by the expression on his face, he hears at least some of what Daylen hasn't said about other kinds of templars and how they treat mages. Less naïve than he might be, then, and Daylen looks away. Not ashamed, just too tired to want a trip through those memories tonight.

"I'm not a templar," Alistair says. His tone is calm rather than defensive.

"I know," Daylen says. A half smile curls the corner of his mouth. "If I really thought of you as one of them, I never would have yelled at you."

"Thanks, I guess." For all his dubious tone, Alistair is smiling.

"It's usually a bad idea to yell at someone who'd be happy for an excuse to practice their ability to knock me flat and steal my magic at the same time."

Daylen meant it as a joke of the gallows humor variety, but it wipes the smile off Alistair's face. "Were you ever...?"

He trails off, brow furrowing, and Daylen's stomach turns. There are a lot of ways that question could end, and Daylen very much does not want to let Alistair think too much about his options. Better to finish the sentence for him and keep control of the conversation.

"Was I ever hit with a smite?" he asks. "Yes. Twice. I didn't want to try for a third."

Alistair says nothing, his eyes on Daylen's face. It's not a pitying look, which Daylen could have used as an excuse to get angry and walk away. The look is intent, focused on Daylen like there's nothing else in the world but the two of them, and it draws more words out of him.

"The first time was on purpose," he says. "On their part, I mean. They wanted us to know what it felt like, what they could do to us with a thought. They wanted us to be afraid of it."

Alistair nods slowly. _I'm listening,_ his expression says. _I hear you._

It might be the first time in Daylen's life anyone except another mage has looked at him like that.

"The Joining was worse," he says, trying to joke, hoping maybe that will break this connection and let him stop talking.

Alistair's lips twitch, a brief smile that acknowledges the joke without letting Daylen escape.

"But not by much," his mouth adds despite him. "The templars wanted us to be afraid of them, of being hit like that again, and it worked, because it was awful. You're totally helpless, and it doesn't just take your magic, it's like being hit in the head, too." He remembers the nauseating way everything spun and swooped, his thoughts tangled and unable to connect with each other. "And there's nothing you can do about it."

To his surprise, Alistair says, "There is, actually."

It breaks the spell, except now Daylen has a new reason holding him in place, unable to look away. "What?"

"There is something you can do about it," Alistair says. "You can learn to shrug it off." And while Daylen's mouth is still falling open in surprise, Alistair corrects himself, "It's not really learning, I guess. More like...get used to it? Adapt to it? Like how people who've had pox don't get it again. Except you have to be exposed a lot first."

Daylen stares at him, almost as dizzy as if he had been hit with a smite.

"They taught us about it for the opposite reason," Alistair says. "They wanted us to know it was possible, and to be careful of mages who'd been hit a lot, but I don't see why you couldn't-"

Heart pounding, Daylen lunges forward to grab the front of his tunic and shake him. "How?" he demands. "How do I do it?"

"You just do it a lot," Alistair says, surprised, like he thought he'd said that already.

"That's it?" Daylen asks. "Just let a templar smite me over and over again?"

"Well, not exactly," Alistair says. "I mean, no one’s ever done it on purpose as far as I know, but it’s probably like strengthening a muscle. You work it a little bit at a time, you don't start by trying to pick up the heaviest thing you can find."

"So I...what? Just ask a templar to smite me gently over and over again?" Despite the sarcasm, he's giving the idea serious thought.

"Basically," Alistair says, giving him an odd look.

Daylen realizes abruptly how close their faces are, how close he is to sitting in Alistair's lap. He leans back hastily, letting go of Alistair's shirt and gripping his own hands to remind himself not to do that again. "Sorry," he says, jerking his chin at the mess he made of Alistair's shirt.

"It's fine." Alistair smooths out the wrinkles, watching his hands rather than looking at Daylen.

Daylen's thoughts are spinning, but they're spinning around a single question he's not sure he can ask. It burns in the back of his throat, acid he can't swallow down. Asking templars for favors never ends well, but Alistair isn't exactly a templar.

Without looking up from his hands, Alistair says tentatively, "I could help, if you want. We could work on it. You and me, I mean. Together."

"I..." Daylen's throat closes and his mouth works soundlessly for a moment, before he manages to choke out, "Yes."

"Only if you want," Alistair says hurriedly. "It won't be a lot of fun for you."

"It will be the Maker's own hell," Daylen says. His voice is rough, like he's been breathing smoke, and every word hurts. "I don't fucking care."

###

They start the next evening. As soon as the tents are up and the fire properly started, Daylen all but drags Alistair away from the group to a spot where they can have some privacy without going too far from the safety of the camp.

"Do it," he says to Alistair, gritting the words out between clenched teeth. At this point, the waiting is worse than the smite will be.

Alistair eyes him doubtfully. "Do you want to sit down first?"

Not really, but Daylen recognizes it as a good suggestion even if the instinctive part of him wants to stay standing. He sits.

"All right," he says, jaw aching. "Now do it."

Alistair shifts nervously from foot to foot, eyes scanning the camp and the clearing before settling back on Daylen. "Are you ready?"

"Alistair," Daylen snarls. "Just. Fucking. Do it."

Alistair does.

It's as awful as Daylen remembers, the way an invisible hammer comes down on his head as his sense of the Fade drains away. He claws after his magic and tries to fight off the dizziness at the same time, succeeding at neither until the effects begin to wear off on their own.

His eyes closed when he wasn't paying attention, but he doesn't bother to open them. "Again."

The second time is no better than the first, the third leaves him flat on his back, and the fourth has him rolling onto his side to avoid choking as his empty stomach tries to find something to throw up.

At least he's aware enough to roll over. It's a pleasant surprise, if he can call this pleasant: curled on his side in the dirt, retching as tears run down his face.

"Hey," Alistair says quietly, once Daylen is down to the occasional shudder. By the sound of his voice, he's close, but thank the Maker, he's keeping his hands to himself. Daylen isn't sure what he would do if someone touched him right now, especially if that someone was a templar. Former templar.

 _Never a templar,_ the rational part of his brain points out.

Daylen ignores it. "What," he croaks out in response to Alistair.

"Do you want some water?"

Right now? He would laugh if he didn't hurt so much. "In a bit."

"Is it all right if I bring you a cup, and you can drink it when you're ready?"

The words, "I can get it myself," are on his tongue before he swallows them. Instead, he says, "Yes." Then, trying not to sound grudging, "Thank you."

"Will you be all right by yourself?"

"I won't die," Daylen says, because saying he'll be all right is too big a lie.

He listens to the creaking and jingling of Alistair's armor as they fade into the distance, then listens to his own breathing. Calm. Steady. Even. It's currently none of those things, but by the time Alistair returns, it's getting there.

Sitting up is a slow process, one Daylen doesn't try to rush lest he end up face-down in the dirt again. Alistair doesn't offer to help, and Daylen silently blesses him for it, even if help would make this easier. He keeps his eyes closed until the end, mainly because that lets him delay seeing whatever expression is on Alistair's face.

When he finally gets to the point where he can't put it off any longer, he peers through his lashes to see what he can read of Alistair's expression. Concern is foremost--no surprise there--with relief beginning to push it aside. A bit of guilt; also not a surprise, if annoying. There's something else, too, something Daylen can't place, but since it's not pity, he decides he doesn't care.

He opens his eyes the rest of the way and looks around until he finds the cup Alistair set beside him. The water is cool on his tongue, and he's drained it all before he realizes.

"Here," Alistair says. He has a flask in one hand, and when Daylen holds out the cup, Alistair refills it with such intense concentration Daylen smiles weakly.

Catching sight of the expression, Alistair smiles back. That emotion Daylen couldn't identify floods his face, and Daylen squints at him, trying and failing to get his thoughts in order.

"Well," he says when he's drained the cup again, "that somehow managed to be even worse than I expected. I can't remember the last time I failed that spectacularly."

Alistair's eyes widen. "What?"

Daylen imitates the expression. "I'm pretty sure you were present for that debacle."

"Well, yeah," Alistair says, "I was here, but...but that was amazing. _You_ were amazing." He kneels in the grass so they're closer to the same height, his eyes locked on Daylen's. "I hit you four times."

"And then I cried like a child and tried to throw up everything I've ever eaten."

Alistair shakes his head sharply. " _Four times,_ " he says again. "Four. And you're sitting up talking to me right now."

"Did you miss the part in the middle," Daylen drawls, "with the crying and the vomiting?"

Alistair's free hand makes an aborted move toward Daylen before Alistair catches it and grabs his own hair instead. "You don't understand," he says. "Four. Times."

"I can count, Alistair."

"That's incredible!" Alistair waves the hand holding the flask, sloshing water onto himself without noticing. "People don't do that, they don't, they _can't_ , most people are unconscious after _two_..."

He keeps babbling, but Daylen has stopped listening, because he's finally put a name to the expression on Alistair's face. Amazement. Alistair is amazed, and while Alistair is easy to impress in some areas, fighting isn't one of them.

Oh. Well. All right then.

"Alistair," Daylen says, cutting across the words Alistair doesn't seem able to stop. "Thank you."

"I didn't really do anything," Alistair objects.

"Shut up," Daylen says, smiling to lighten the words. "Thank you for helping me with this. It means a lot to me."

Alistair looks both pleased and embarrassed, his shoulders rising in an awkward shrug. "I want to help."

 _"You like being useful,"_ Daylen says silently. _"I remember."_

He feels like death right now, one strong breeze away from falling over, but Alistair's presence fills his awareness anyway. That by itself isn't so strange; Daylen is conscious of Alistair whenever they're within twenty feet of each other. In other words, whenever Daylen is in range of a smite. Right now, though, Daylen's awareness has less to do with templars and more to do with how good Alistair looks, smiling like that.

Not just smiling. Smiling at Daylen. A little shy, a little hopeful, and if he wasn't a former templar, Daylen would lean closer to see what happens. Daylen has always liked men and women both, as long as he's the one leading, and there are a lot of things he likes about Alistair. Only one is that remembered, _"I like to be useful,"_ and all the things those words might mean in a more intimate setting.

With a grimace, Daylen looks away and straightens his back, the movement putting a few extra inches between the two of them. Alistair is a templar.

Former templar.

Close enough.

Something about the movement must look like he's bracing himself, because Alistair's smile fades into a distinctly dubious look as he asks, "Did you want to keep going?"

"Not tonight," Daylen says. His head is pounding in time with his pulse, and it really is a shame neither he nor Morrigan is much good with healing magic. Or maybe it is a good thing: if he felt better, he might be tempted to see what would happen if he leaned forward into Alistair's space. He has no idea if that would be welcome, and ruining the fragile rapport they've built would do no one any favors. The excitement under his exhaustion doesn't care, but the exhaustion keeps it in check.

Alistair bounces to his feet and takes a step toward the fire, then turns back. His fingers flex at his side, like he's forcing his hand to stay where it is.

Daylen contemplates the various ways he could get to his feet and finally picks the least embarrassing option. "I wouldn't mind a hand up."

The words are barely out of his mouth before Alistair's hands are there, ready for Daylen to grab. Very strong, those hands. Warm, too. Daylen doesn't want to let go of them, even once he doesn't need them anymore. They rest loosely in his, not holding on but not pulling away, either. One of Alistair's knees is between Daylen's, where it ended up as Alistair hauled him to his feet, and it wouldn't take much to-

Daylen steps back as quickly as he can without it looking like a retreat. "Thank you," he says again. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, his body cold where it was--almost--pressed against Alistair's.

"You're welcome." Alistair's voice is odd, and when Daylen looks over, he's twisting the flask's strap between his hands.

Shit.

"We don't have to do this," Daylen says. He means what they were practicing before, but the words echo in his ears, heavy with double meaning. "If it's bothering you."

"What? No!" Alistair looks honestly confused. "I mean, I don't like hurting you, but that's what practice is for, right? So when it's a real fight, you don't get hurt."

"Pain now rather than pain later?" Daylen teases, trying to draw them back into familiar territory, away from the tension of that momentary closeness.

"Pain now for less pain later," Alistair corrects, smiling a little. "I told you, I like to help. If you still want to do this, then so do I."

Daylen remembers the look on Alistair's face when he first opened his eyes, the concern tinged with guilt that wasn't the expression of a man happy with the world. "Are you sure?" he presses. "Because you looked upset earlier."

"I was worried," Alistair says, shrugging like the admission costs him nothing. "But I would have been worried just the same if I was sparring with Sten, and he started throwing up. That doesn't mean I wouldn't spar with him again."

A fair point. "Maybe next time we can skip the part where I throw up."

"Good plan," Alistair says. He's smiling again, and really, there are less than two steps between them. Daylen could-

Daylen could step wide around him and head for the fire, before his cock has him trying something he'll regret. There's elfroot in one of the packs by the fire, and the promise of something to tame his headache is enough to keep him moving in the right direction.


	3. Unshakeable, Unbreakable, Unkillable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding to the tags as I think of things, so keep an eye on them. Also, just a little reminder that in some ways, Daylen is what you might call an unreliable narrator. Which is my way of saying that the character's view on things is not necessarily the same as the author's.

After that, Daylen tries to keep in mind both Sten's words and Alistair's.

_"He wishes to serve."_

_"I like to be useful."_

So he looks for ways to let Alistair be useful that don't make Daylen's skin itch unpleasantly, and for ways to praise without patronizing him. _"Alistair, you did an excellent job combing your hair today"_ isn't going to have the desired effect. Daylen is beginning to understand what it was about Duncan that made people--including Daylen--follow him, and it wasn't just natural charisma. It was a skill like any other, something Daylen can learn if he's willing to try.

Though Daylen wouldn't mind having some of that charisma to help him. Maybe it would come with the ability to understand what people need, what makes them feel seen and appreciated. As it is, he spends a great deal of time flailing around in the dark when it comes to those who are less transparent than Alistair and Barkspawn.

At least he doesn't find Morrigan, Leliana, or Sten as distracting as he finds Alistair. He can analyze them rationally and figure out what they need from him, in a way he can't with Alistair. If Sten hadn't pointed him in the right direction, how long would it have taken Daylen to see past Alistair's templar training?

Having seen past it, having found someone he likes behind the shadow of the armor Alistair never, in fact, wore, Daylen can't seem to control which he sees at any given moment. Sometimes that phantom armor blocks everything, and he wants Alistair as far away as possible. Sometimes he doesn't remember it was ever there at all, and he wants to push Alistair against the nearest tree to find out what noises he might make with Daylen's hand around his cock and teeth against his throat.

All of which makes it hard to read Alistair, though Daylen has plenty of opportunities to work on it. Most nights when the immediate camp chores are done, the two of them find a semi-private space, and Daylen practices not falling over when a templar smites him.

It's slower going than he expected. He stays on his feet longer--metaphorically speaking, since he's never foolish enough to actually practice while standing--and he learns to recognize when he's close to his limit so he can call a halt before he's made himself sick. Still, it's not what he was hoping for. Alistair's first strike still leaves him reeling, scrambling to keep his magic and his balance but always losing both. What does it matter if, given a moment to rest, he can still talk after five, six, seven strikes? In a real fight, with no pause to recover, he'd be dead after the first.

It rankles deeply, and Daylen tries not to let his frustration overflow into anger at Alistair. It's not Alistair's fault that Daylen can't figure out how to do this. He helps as much as he can, but he was never a full templar, and his knowledge of his abilities is limited to a recruit's training and a few months of experimenting on his own.

The irony doesn't escape Daylen, that he occasionally finds himself wishing Alistair was a full templar with all the knowledge of the order at his disposal. At _their_ disposal. It's not a wish he lingers on. As soon as his thoughts start down that path, he looks past the part where he would be able to resist a dozen attempts to smite him, and sees Alistair in templar armor, flaming sword on his breast. The image turns Daylen's stomach worse than any smite, and he can't be but so disappointed to be denied that particular shortcut.

It's not as if it's likely to be a problem any time soon: there aren't any templars to cross paths with them on the road to the Brecilian Forest. Daylen would have been more surprised if they had met any, unless it was one foolish enough to risk the forest in search of elven apostates. He'd rather like to see that, actually. Thoughts of templars shot full of arrows keep him pleasant company as they make their way east.

A day out from the forest proper, they stop at an inn, the last one they expect to see for a while. There is one bright side to the seemingly-endless parade of bandits who insist on attempting to rob them: at this point, they can pay for beds rather than space in the hayloft. Beds, and a meal prepared by someone who knows more about cooking than "put things near the fire and wait, maybe add some water." Unless the inn's cook is truly terrible, whatever they eat tonight will be the best meal they've had in weeks.

"Assuming we don't die of hunger right here," Daylen mutters in an aside to the others. They're currently propping up the wall of the common room while Bodahn haggles with the innkeeper like they have two sovereigns with which to feed themselves for the rest of their trip, Orzammar included.

"Would you like me to interrupt them?" Leliana asks.

"No." Aware that was too sharp, Daylen adds, "Thank you, though." Other than Bodahn, Leliana is the only one of them with the experience to differentiate between a fair price and polite highway robbery, which would be more useful if she wasn't too sweet to be much good at bargaining.

"But Daylen," she says, and only a bard could put so much pathos into his name without whining, "listen to him. He's too hard on them, and they have so little. Surely we can spare them a few extra coins."

"And this is why you're here with us," Morrigan says with a roll of her eyes, "and Bodahn is the one renting us rooms."

Behind Leliana, Alistair looks like he doesn't know how he feels about being in agreement with Morrigan over anything.

"We may need the money later," Daylen points out. Unlike Morrigan, he has no inherent objection to charity, but if they run out of money before they've worked through all of the treaties, they won't have many options. No matter how happily he would watch certain places be overrun with darkspawn, he has no desire to see all of Ferelden burn because Leliana has a soft heart.

Suddenly inspired, he adds, "You could play for them tonight. It might keep customers here longer, and that would help."

Leliana brightens at that, and Daylen heaves a covert sigh of relief, glad to have headed her off before Sten got involved in the conversation. Leliana, Sten, and Morrigan discussing the relative merits of being generous versus encouraging self-sufficiency is not a discussion they need to have again. If they feel differently, they can do it when Daylen isn't around.

"Ah, here we are!" Bodahn says, sounding very pleased with himself as he joins them. He has his bag in one hand and Sandal's arm in the other, with a young girl following in his wake. The girl has a handful of keys and bears a strong resemblance to the innkeeper, and Daylen isn't surprised when she's the one who leads the way upstairs.

By the time they come back down, the common room has started to fill up, but they manage to find a table against one wall with enough empty seats for all of them. Leliana, of course, has made three new friends before they even have food.

"How does she do that?" Alistair asks, watching her with mingled admiration and envy from his usual seat beside Daylen.

Daylen shrugs. "Bard." What else is there to say?

Sten makes a disapproving noise, but Daylen has plenty of practice ignoring those. Trying to make Sten happy seems to be counter-productive: the harder Daylen tries to win him over, the more Sten disapproves. By now, Daylen has given up trying.

Instead, he watches the crowd, surprised by how little it bothers him to be surrounded by strangers. His whole life, he's grabbed every chance to be alone, or at least somewhere quiet, but it turns out even he can get tired of silence. After days of walking, with no one to talk to except the same five people, it's nice to see different faces for a few hours, especially with Leliana there to shoulder the actual conversational burden.

And shoulder it she does tonight. All of it. Alistair, who Daylen would have expected to join Leliana in talking their tablemates' ears off, goes almost completely silent after the seat opposite him is claimed by a woman nearly as tall as he is, though she's still several inches shorter than Daylen. She has a wide grin, a bow to match her height, and a mottled cloak of the kind that would blend very well in the forest. A poacher or a forester, and either way, Daylen wants to talk to her.

She has little interest in talking to him, though. Her attention is all for Alistair, and she flirts so outrageously Daylen is too entertained to be frustrated. He wants whatever information he can get about the forest, _before_ they're in its heart, but he won't be getting it from her. She's too busy trying to coax something out of Alistair except blushes.

Even after Daylen abandons his hopes of learning anything useful, he keeps an eye on the conversation, ready to intervene if Alistair looks uncomfortable. It never comes to that, though. For all his red face, Alistair seems pleased with the attention. Confused, but also pleased, giving her shy, sideways smiles she repays by flirting more outrageously.

Amused, Daylen imagines saying to him, _"I'm buying you a mirror,"_ and watching him blush harder, charmingly oblivious as he is to his own good looks.

Daylen is vaguely jealous of the woman, but he stomps those feelings down ruthlessly. Any thoughts he might have in that direction are pointless for too many reasons to count, starting with Alistair's templar abilities and ending with his clear lack of attraction to men. Daylen has had a few opportunities to watch people flirt with Alistair, and the blushing and stammering only put in an appearance for women.

That's assuming Alistair even realizes he's being flirted with--not always a given--but he definitely does in this case, and Daylen doesn't want to interfere. Other than Leliana, the rest of their companions have gone up to bed, and Leliana is several tables away, singing for an enthusiastic crowd. Which means Daylen is the only one hindering Alistair's chance to become better acquainted with his new friend.

Daylen mentally raises a toast to the woman and wishes her the best of luck as he gets to his feet. "Enjoy yourself," he says to Alistair with a grin. "I'm for bed."

"Oh!" Alistair says, blinking up at him in surprise. "Is it that late?"

"Late enough," Daylen says, then steps back in instinctive alarm as Alistair pops to his feet.

"Long day tomorrow," Alistair says to the woman with another shy smile. "It was nice talking to you."

She and Daylen both stare at him in surprise. Daylen recovers first and says, "I'm just tired, that's all. No reason you can’t stay down here."

"Oh, it's fine," Alistair assures him, turning for the stairs. "We should get some sleep."

Behind Alistair's back, Daylen gives the woman a shrug that he hopes conveys, _"I'm as confused as you are."_ She gives him a lopsided smile and spreads her hands in a gesture he reads as, _"Well, you can't blame me for trying."_

Up in their room, Alistair busies himself inspecting his armor, same as he does in camp each night. Daylen watches him for a while, then says tentatively, "I think she was interested in maybe continuing that conversation somewhere a little more private."

Alistair's face turns scarlet before he ducks his head. "I know," he mutters to his armor. "I just...didn't want to."

"All right," Daylen says. He's curious as to why, but he's not going to ask. It's none of his business, and he doesn't want to sound like he's pushing Alistair to do something he doesn't want to do. "Mind if I open the window?"

It was a warm day for spring, and the room is stuffy and close. The common room beneath their feet isn't helping, full as it is of bodies and lanterns and a large fire.

Alistair waves agreement without looking up, the tips of his ears nearly glowing red. "I liked her," he says, as if Daylen asked. "It just would have been kind of awkward when she..."

He trails off, and Daylen takes the opportunity to say gently, "Alistair, you don't owe me an explanation." He swings open the shutters and leans out into the night, adding over his shoulder, "You don't owe anyone an explanation."

"I know," Alistair says, in a tone that makes the words into a lie.

It's cooler outside the room than in, but there isn't much of a breeze and the window is too small to let in what little breeze there is. Below Daylen, one corner of the inn's stable is just visible, and he thinks about abandoning the room to join Barkspawn there, where she's bedded down with Bodahn's wagon and most of their gear.

Daylen had felt bad about that earlier, but none of them wanted to leave the wagon unguarded, and Barkspawn was the only one of them who didn't care about sleeping on the ground. Now he envies her the cooler air she's no doubt enjoying while he's trying to ignore the sweat beading up on the back of his neck.

 _Ah, fuck it,_ Daylen thinks and closes the shutters.

Alistair makes a questioning noise, and Daylen turns to give him a conspiratorial smile, raising a finger to his lips as if anyone could hear them through the door and over the noise of the common room. The expression and the gesture remind him of nights in the children's barracks, whispering when they should be sleeping, and it occurs to Daylen for the first time that he's allowed himself to be shut in a room with a former templar. No witnesses, no Barkspawn, and enough background noise to cover a multitude of sins.

He braces for the fear, ready to push it back with two decades' worth of practice and nearly that much rage, but there's nothing. The twinge of unease that tightens his stomach is habit, a reaction to the idea of a templar rather than to Alistair, and that's more unbalancing than any amount of fear could be.

Alistair cocks his head to the side, curious and beginning to smile in response to Daylen's smile even though he has no idea what Daylen plans to do. It's so like him that it pulls Daylen back out of his own head, amusement washing over the anxiety.

"Are you cold?" Daylen asks.

"Cold?" Alistair repeats in disbelief, wiping one hand exaggeratedly across his forehead.

"Good," Daylen says, deliberately cryptic.

He waits a beat, like a bard about to begin a performance, until Alistair narrows his eyes in mock-annoyance. Then Daylen calls a tiny bit of magic, holding it to a cool breeze rather than the frozen blast it could become, and lets it swirl around the room.

When it reaches Alistair, he sighs in relief and says appreciatively, "Useful."

 _"High praise from you,"_ Daylen says silently. Aloud, he says, "Easy, too. I hate summer, so that's probably the second bit of magic I learned how to do well."

"Ugh, yes." Alistair makes a face. "And it's not even summer yet. But I might hate it less this year," he adds as the breeze ruffles the sleeves of his shirt.

"No such luck," Daylen says with an apologetic shrug. "The spell doesn't work outside."

"It doesn't?"

"Not for long. I could call up a breeze, but then it would just keep going past us, and forcing it to circle in place is hard unless there's something to help." He gestures at the walls around them. "They trap the heat, sure, but they can also trap the cool."

"What about tents?" Alistair asks hopefully.

"The walls are too thin, unless I keep the spell going all night. Which I'm not doing for five tents." He adds a smile to make it clear he's not annoyed.

"Can we just stay in here until fall?"

Daylen thinks about the woman in the common room and almost teases Alistair about how much she probably wanted to hear him say that, but at the last moment he decides against it. No point making Alistair uncomfortable again.

"So what was the first?" Alistair asks. "If making summer less awful was the second spell you learned."

"A shield," Daylen says, taking a seat on his own bed, across from Alistair. "It's the first spell most of us learn, unless you count uncontrolled bursts when we're really young." Personally, he'd always thought it a stupid choice on the part of whoever got to decide such things. He understands that as a protection spell, it's hard for it to go wrong in a way that will hurt someone, but the biggest threat to a Circle mage is a templar. A shield spell isn't going to do any good there.

He doesn't upset Alistair by saying that aloud, instead hurrying on. "Once we learn to make a decent shield, they move us on to spells like this," he waves a hand to indicate the breeze still wafting around the room, "and some spells to control water. Practical stuff, mostly."

"Lighting candles?" Alistair asks. He's seen Daylen light their campfire from wet wood often enough to know how useful that can be.

"They don't usually let us try anything with fire until we're a bit more experienced," Daylen says. "And older. I think they're hoping we'll have more common sense, but I'm not sure there's much difference between an eight-year-old and a twelve-year-old when it comes to fire."

"Probably not," Alistair says, laughing a little. "I think you have to be at least twenty before that happens."

"You're not twenty," Daylen points out.

Alistair grins hugely at him. "I'm not."

Daylen snorts out a laugh. "Then I won't leave you alone with any candles from now on."

"Oh, because you're so much older."

If they're measuring by life experience, Daylen usually feels about ten times older than Alistair, but in this particular case, the three-year difference in their ages isn't vast.

He returns Alistair's grin. "Enough older to say, turns out you have to be at least _thirty_ before you have enough common sense for fire spells."

"So no leaving you alone with candles, either."

"Taking away all the candles wouldn't do you any good," Daylen says. He snaps his fingers to produce a shower of multi-colored sparks, a mostly-useless trick one of the older apprentices taught him in exchange for...well, something Daylen had only ever been forced to do by templars, up to then. It's not a deal Daylen has ever regretted, even though he could have figured the spell out for himself a few years later, when he was officially allowed to learn to control fire. The trick had impressed his age-mates for several years, until they were all old enough for proper training.

Alistair isn't so much impressed as intrigued. He sets aside his chainmail shirt, forgetting all about the hole he was repairing to lean a little forward and stare at Daylen's hand. "I've never seen anyone do that."

Daylen doesn't need more invitation than that to do it again, sending the sparks into long arcs this time, angling them away from Alistair's face. "Careful," he warns mildly. "They can burn if they land on you."

"They're amazing," Alistair murmurs, but he does lean back a little.

In return, Daylen does the trick a few more times in quick succession, making the sparks change color as they fall just to watch Alistair's delighted smile grow wider. To Daylen's surprise, he finds he likes it when Alistair calls him, or something he's made, amazing.

"Hold on," Daylen says, because if he's going to show off, he's going to do it right. With a flick of magic, he puts out the lanterns, throwing the room into darkness.

Alistair makes a surprised noise, then gasps when multicolored sparks burst in midair near the ceiling. Daylen grins, pleased with himself, and does it again, this time setting off the sparks in three places at once, the glowing arcs changing color wherever they overlap. Now that they don't have to compete with the lanterns, the sparks are brilliant, lighting the room in brief flashes that fade and then flash again as Daylen creates another set of soundless explosions.

The delight on Alistair's face transforms into awe, and he watches with rapt attention, his lips parted, until Daylen lets the last of the sparks fade away. The spell by itself is too small to catch the attention of anyone outside this room, even that of a templar or another mage, but if he keeps it up too long, the ripples in the Fade will grow stronger. If he's not prepared to see Ferelden burn just because Leliana has a soft heart, then he's definitely not going to let it happen just to get another smile from Alistair.

He ignores the traitorous part of him that actually weighs, however briefly, the fate of the world against the chance to have Alistair call him amazing again.

"Come on," he says to Alistair as he relights the lanterns. "You need to finish with your armor so we can get some sleep."

Alistair's face falls, but then he shakes himself and looks at Daylen with a trace of his earlier delight. "Thank you," he says. "That was... _thank you_."

"It's easy," Daylen says. "I can do it any time we're somewhere it doesn't risk giving us away." Setting off sparks outside would be the same as putting up a sign announcing their presence.

"Really?" Alistair asks, nearly breathless.

"Sure," Daylen says. "Ask me next time we're at an inn, I can do it again."

Alistair smiles hugely, his eyes crinkling, and for just a moment, the force of it is focused on Daylen, leaving him breathless as Alistair says, "I will."

Knocked stupid by that smile, it isn't until later, right before he falls asleep, that Daylen realizes he just agreed to share a room with Alistair the next time they're at an inn. It doesn't bother him as much as he would have expected.

###

When they come down for breakfast the next morning, Daylen learns that the maybe-forester-maybe-poacher who flirted with Alistair last night didn't go to bed alone after all.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Daylen asks Leliana dryly. On his other side, Alistair seems entirely unconcerned by this turn of events.

"I did," Leliana says.

There's a gleam in her eye that makes Daylen briefly nostalgic for…not for the Circle but for the mages he left behind there, for people he knew and was comfortable with, who wouldn't run screaming if they somehow found out he was a mage. He can't imagine relaxing enough to enjoy sex if he had to be constantly on his guard against the tiniest mistake. His control of his magic is better than most mages'--with his temper, it has to be--but now, even an otherwise harmless slip could get them killed.

He shakes that off and asks, "Learn anything useful?"

Leliana gives him an offended look. "Of course."

"Of course," Daylen agrees, holding up his hands in silent apology for doubting her.

The forester-poacher herself left before dawn, but Leliana learned a surprising amount of information about the forest, its elven clan, and its dangers. She may be terrible at bargaining, but she knows how to get information out of people without seeming too interested in the answers.

"Werewolves?" Daylen asks when she's finished. He keeps his voice down, but he can't keep the dismay out of it.

"Werewolves," Leliana says regretfully.

The others' expressions range from uneasy to afraid, except for Sten, who looks as blank as ever.

 _"Great,"_ Daylen wants to say. _"We'll die before we succeed in delivering the first treaty. The illustrious Grey Wardens, unable to recruit even a single ally against a Blight."_

He hopes that doesn't show on his face as he says, "At least we know." A glance around the table shows everyone done eating, and there's no point in lingering. "Let's go find out if that does us any good."

They're a quiet group as they head out. Barkspawn picks up the general mood and stays close to Daylen, walking beside him while Alistair does the same on his other side. Bracketed by the two of them, Daylen tries not to feel like he's being escorted under guard to be made Tranquil. It's hard to remember this is Barkspawn and Alistair; his fear reduces them to a dog who could rip out his throat and a former templar who could knock him down with a thought. That he knows neither of them would do it doesn't help very much.

He grits his teeth and tolerates it for the morning, and by afternoon, they're in the forest proper. Barkspawn goes ahead to scout, Alistair falls back to act as rearguard, and Daylen can breathe for the first time all day.

It's the last easy breath he takes for the next three weeks: they meet the Dalish late that afternoon, and from there, nothing goes the way Daylen expected. It's not that he thought the Dalish's lives were easy, exactly, but the brutal reality of their tenuous situation is still a shock. He's thrown off even more to find himself on the other side of the divide between oppressor and oppressed. To the Dalish, he's nothing more or less than a human, one member of a group that's done its best to wipe them from the face of Thedas. They look at him the way every mage looks at every templar: waiting for the inevitable pain, whether deliberate or accidental, that his presence will eventually bring.

He can't even say their wariness is misplaced. By the time he leaves them behind, he's cut open their old wounds to bleed again and can't offer any healing. It's small consolation that he managed to find a path between the wolves and the elves, that he saved as many lives as he did. Maybe he didn't leave a bloodbath in his wake, but he left blood enough and then some.

The first night after they leave the forest, Daylen pushes everyone back into their old routines, and he thinks the others are grateful for it. Much easier to ignore what they've seen if they're too busy with camp chores. He even drags Alistair off to resume their interrupted practices, set aside in the last week as the tension between elves and wolves grew, and then further ignored in the aftermath of Zathrian's death.

They try to pick up where they left off, but their hearts aren't in it. Somehow, Daylen's recovery from Alistair's third smite stretches longer and longer, the two of them sitting in silence, close enough to touch but not actually doing so. A dozen times over, Daylen thinks, _We should be practicing,_ then does nothing about it. Instead, he listens to Alistair breathe beside him in the growing darkness and tries not to think about the Dalish. The weight of all that pain and rage and grief, carried by so many for so long, presses down on both of them and kills any attempt at conversation before it even starts.

By the fire, Leliana begins to sing, and for a moment, Daylen hates her for breaking the silence, for being immune to the awfulness of the last few weeks. Then the song washes over him and his skin tightens, hairs standing on end. He doesn't understand the words, but the song rips through him anyway, pins him to the ground and drags him out of his body at the same time. The world is spinning, but it spins around the light of their tiny fire, and it spins out that song into something vast and unknowable.

Tears burn behind his eyes, the first time in years he's wanted to cry from something other than anger or pain. He almost wishes he was a small child again, able to crawl into someone's lap and be held. Any promises of safety would be lies, and he doesn't want them; all he wants is the comfort of knowing he isn't alone.

He learned young how dangerous it was to rely on anyone else, especially for comfort. To need someone was to give the templars a weapon, one they wouldn't hesitate to use. To show weakness was worse.

Beside him, Alistair's breath hitches in a swallowed sob. The breaths that follow are steadier but a little too loud, the effort obvious.

Daylen can't afford to need anyone, but that doesn't mean he can't offer comfort to someone else. It's what a good leader would do. What Duncan would do.

Slowly, letting grass and cloth rustle so as not to startle Alistair, Daylen turns so the two of them are sitting side-by-side, close enough he can press their shoulders together. Maybe he pushes too hard, because Alistair makes a surprised noise and almost falls over. He catches his balance, though, and once he has, he leans into Daylen's shoulder every bit as hard as Daylen is leaning into his.

Neither of them says anything even after Leliana is done. The song has left Daylen gutted and empty, like it pulled everything out of him and his emotions have yet to find their way back where they belong. His emotions, and his memories. No way to know what Alistair is thinking, only that his breathing is quiet and slow, and the weight of his shoulder is an anchor holding Daylen in the present.

The first emotion to return is amusement when Alistair's stomach grumbles loudly. "Well," Daylen says, "I suppose that's a sign we're done practicing for tonight."

Alistair sighs and says reluctantly, "I suppose."

Neither of them moves.

After a while, Alistair's stomach complains again and this time, Daylen's joins the protest. Alistair chuckles softly. "That really is a sign. Come on, I hear some gruel calling our names."

Daylen smiles and lets Alistair help him up. There's another long moment of silence after Daylen gains his feet, the two of them standing close, hands around each other's wrists. Daylen looks down to find Alistair looking up, and Daylen thinks about kissing him.

 _"I really wish you weren't a templar,"_ he thinks at Alistair, and means it.

 _"I'm not a templar,"_ Alistair says in his imagination. _"Unless being an almost-templar counts."_

 _"All right then,"_ Daylen says silently, and why is Alistair making him laugh even like this? _"I wish you weren't a former almost-templar."_

"Gruel, huh?" he says out loud as he steps back and releases Alistair's wrist. "I thought Sten was cooking tonight, not you."

"Ha ha," Alistair says, deadpan. His hand hangs in the air for a heartbeat, fingers flexing, but he drops it before Daylen can decide what--if anything--that means. "Because your cooking is so much better than mine."

"At least my gruel has salt in it."

"True," Alistair allows, "it does have salt." He makes a show of mock-whispering behind his hand as he adds, "I've been meaning to ask, but you do know you're not supposed to put in the whole bag, right?"

Daylen snaps his fingers like he's just realized something important. "So _that's_ what I've been doing wrong!"

"Glad to be of service," Alistair says.

Firmly squashing the part of his brain that has a number of suggestions for how Alistair can be of service, Daylen says instead, "Thank you so much." The words are almost as sincere as Alistair's earlier whisper. "You have my eternal gratitude."

"Everyone else's, too, when they have to eat your cooking."

They're both laughing as they walk the rest of the way back to the fire, and the hollow place in Daylen's chest no longer feels quite as empty.


	4. Without Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well that took longer than I expected: I had a problem in a later chapter that required major changes to this one, so I've been disassembling and re-assembling this chapter for two weeks. I hope it works, and now maybe I can finally get back to finishing the last chapter. +facepalm+
> 
> On the plus side, the next chapter should be ready in a few days, because most of what was chapter 4 is now chapter 5.

The next morning, they head north toward Denerim. Daylen is hoping they might be able to sneak into the city, both to re-supply and to gather whatever information they can. He doesn't expect to learn any of Loghain's secrets, but he'd like to know more of the lies being told about the "renegade" Grey Wardens, and whether there's any word of how far the Blight has spread.

Much to his own surprise, he'd also like a day or two around people other than his travelling companions. Silence and time to think were a luxury at Kinloch Hold, but the monotony of so much walking is starting to grate on him now. At the point where he finds himself excited by the prospect of a darkspawn attack, he knows he needs to do something, and Denerim seems the best choice.

This Brother Genitivi is supposed to be in Denerim, too. With nothing to do but think, Daylen has been turning the story of the Urn of Sacred Ashes around in his head. While he had originally dismissed the whole thing as beside the point, the longer he thinks about it, the more he thinks his original assessment was wrong. Eventually he'll have to negotiate with the templars, and with Ferelden's banns and arls, and when he does, it will be at a distinct disadvantage. He's both a mage and a Grey Warden, and they don't consider either one trustworthy. Both together could very well doom him before he even opens his mouth.

The Urn might make all the difference. If he can present himself to the Chantry not as a mage or a Grey Warden but as the person responsible for bringing them Andraste's ashes, then he has a place to stand that will put him eye to eye with any noble in Ferelden. Turning a holy relic into an opportunity to gain political power doesn't much bother him; he would as soon spit on the ashes as look at them anyway. He'll use the Urn to buy an army to stop the Blight, and he'll do it without a moment's hesitation.

What makes him hesitate is the vagueness of the whole thing. Ser Henric _might_ have found where Brother Genitivi lives. Brother Genitivi _might_ know where to find the Urn. The Urn _might_ be somewhere Daylen can get to it without travelling half of Thedas, and if he can find it, it _might_ be useful. How many days is he prepared to waste on might and maybe?

He's still debating when the assassination attempt comes and leaves him with another dilemma, one he can't spend days considering: what to do with the assassin.

Daylen has never given much thought to assassins--if someone was going to kill him, he always assumed it would be a templar--so he wouldn't have said he had any expectations, and yet, this assassin manages to upend them anyway. Daylen isn't used to anyone flirting with him so blatantly and so soon after trying to kill him. He also doesn't care much for people trying to charm him, not after some of the templars he's known, but for some reason it doesn't irritate him when this assassin does it. Maybe because Zevran has no power over him, or maybe Zevran is just better at being charming: either way, Daylen is more inclined to laugh than anything.

The others think he's lost his mind when he spares Zevran's life, but despite a few mutinous looks, they abandon the argument eventually.

Had they tried again that night in camp, they might have had more luck.

Zevran does the chores he's assigned with the same charming smile he's worn all day, but his gaze is sharp and assessing. He's studying them, Daylen knows, as individuals and as a group. It makes Daylen nervous, much the way he felt when an instructor was reviewing a particularly important assignment.

 _"Did I pass?"_ he imagines asking, his mental voice self-mocking.

But he doesn't know Zevran well enough to continue that imaginary conversation, and even if he did, the whole thing flies out of his head when Zevran begins to flirt with Alistair.

It starts as soon as they sit down to eat. Zevran sits on the opposite side of Alistair from Daylen and puts the full force of his considerable charm toward winning Alistair over. He stays just the right side of too close and keeps his voice just shy of too warm, and Daylen is grinding his teeth before the meal is half over.

 _"It's not too late to kill you,"_ he imagines saying to Zevran. Except it is, unless Zevran does something more provoking than flirt with someone who is not, in fact, anything other than Daylen's friend. In the extremely unlikely event that the others let Daylen get away with killing Zevran, Daylen can't imagine living with himself afterward.

That doesn't mean he's successful at unclenching his jaw. It must show even in the firelight, because when Zevran gets up to refill his and Alistair's bowls, he blinks at whatever he sees on Daylen's face.

Embarrassed, Daylen looks down at his food. He has no right to say who flirts with Alistair, and even less right to object if Alistair flirts back. Not that Alistair has been flirting back. If anything, he seems confused, an assessment that's borne out when he leans over to ask Daylen in a whisper, "Do you think he's trying to get me to lower my guard?"

Daylen doesn't laugh or put his hands over his face, but he does take a very large bite of tonight's gruel--salted appropriately, since someone else was doing the cooking. "Mm," he says, which is about all he can say with his mouth full.

Alistair straightens in his seat as Zevran starts to turn away from the fire and back toward them, but Leliana catches Zevran's arm and murmurs something in his ear. His eyebrows flick up and he tips his chin down to reply equally quietly. The position hides his mouth and most of his face, as if Daylen had any skill at lip-reading.

The whispered conversation doesn't last much longer. When it's over, Zevran takes a new seat on the opposite side of the fire and strikes up a conversation with Morrigan. It's Leliana who brings Alistair's bowl back to him with a bland smile.

"Thanks," Alistair says as he accepts the bowl. "And thanks for that, too." The tilt of his chin toward Zevran is remarkably subtle, for him. "I don't know what he wanted, but it couldn't have been good."

"Mm," Leliana says, and goes back to the fire. At no point during the exchange does she meet Daylen's eyes.

Daylen cringes internally. He'd like to think that lack of eye contact was because she was afraid they might both start laughing, but somehow, he doesn't think so. Trust Leliana to have noticed his attraction to Alistair and to have felt it was her right to interfere. Fuck.

If Daylen were a better person, he would pull Zevran aside and explain that no one has a claim on Alistair, least of all Daylen. The damage has been done, though, and it doesn't matter that much, does it? Maybe it's even for the best: Zevran won't waste his energy, and Alistair won't be embarrassed by the proposition that would no doubt have followed soon enough. Better for everyone that Leliana stopped Zevran before things went too far.

It's complete bullshit. Daylen knows it and does nothing anyway. He feels a little guilty, but not enough to say anything to Zevran.

###

They reach Denerim two days later and spend a few days gathering what information they can. Daylen doesn't dare linger too long--the group of them is hardly inconspicuous--but he wishes they could. As it is, he considers the time a mixed success at best. They learn that the search for them continues, but that's hardly surprising, and information on the current extent of the Blight varies too much to be useful. One merchant insists the Blight still reaches no further than Ostagar, and the next swears it's nearly to Dragon's Peak, and a third claims it's taken Amaranthine and bypassed Denerim all together.

Re-supplying goes somewhat better but still not as well as Daylen had hoped. There are things they can't find, and what they can find isn't always within their means, the Blight having driven prices to sometimes-laughable levels.

Brother Genitivi's house isn't too hard to find, and despite the cultists' attempts to interfere, they manage to pinpoint Haven's likely location. Daylen would be more excited if that location wasn't in the heart of the Frostbacks. On principle, he copies out the relevant sections of Genitivi's maps and notes, but he also sets aside his half formed plans of using the Urn of Sacred Ashes to browbeat the Chantry into compliance. If they pass close enough to Haven that it won't take them too far out of their way, then he'll reconsider.

The only unmitigated success is that they all have a few days to talk to people other than each other. Since it makes for a more peaceful camp when they do leave the city, Daylen supposes he's grateful.

They take the Imperial Highway, first north and then west. It might be quicker to go cross-country, but they would have to leave Bodahn and his wagon behind, and Daylen has no interest in doing that. When an irritated Morrigan "suggests" it in snide tones, Daylen gives her his widest, most insincere smile.

"That's a brilliant idea," he says. If she hadn't been complaining about it for the last two miles, maybe he would have better control over his sarcasm. "But you'll pardon if I'm not sure which you're suggesting."

"Which I'm suggesting?"

"Were you offering to shapeshift into a pack mule to carry the tents," he asks, "or were you proposing we sleep in the rain for the next few months? And let's not forget it will probably be snowing in the Frostbacks. Oh, and I'm sure there'll be sleet at some point." He snaps his fingers as if he's just thought of something. "Or hail! I know how much I've always wanted to sleep outdoors in a hailstorm."

No one else suggests leaving Bodahn and his wagon behind.

All other considerations aside, Bodahn's wagon is their best protection now they're away from the Blight and into lands patrolled by the army. As a group, they're the wrong combination of ragged and well-armed, and Daylen would forgive anyone who mistook them for brigands. Bodahn's wagon makes them unexceptional in the eyes of those they pass, nothing more than a merchant smart enough to hire guards but too poor to hire good ones. They're forgotten before they're out of sight.

And privately, Daylen considers their slow pace a blessing, because it allows him to postpone the decision about their next destination: Orzammar or Kinloch Hold. Lake Calenhad's docks are very nearly on the main road, a "detour" of less than an hour, setting aside however long they need at the tower itself. Walking past it now will require them to backtrack later, and time is not on their side.

At least Zevran makes the walking less tedious, though not in the ways Daylen would have expected. His presence creates ripples in the group, tilting the others' interactions with each other even when he's not involved. A year ago, Daylen wouldn't have given it any thought--he might not even have noticed--but a year ago, he wasn't responsible for stopping a Blight. No matter how much he hates to need anyone, he can't do this alone, and he can't do it with a group tearing itself apart from the inside. He has to keep them all moving in the right direction, and at least mostly in step with each other, which means he has to understand them.

Taken together, who Zevran charms and how he does it show Daylen facets of the others he never would have seen on his own. Watching Zevran draw the others out is both entertaining and educational, and seeing who else notices is likewise illuminating. Even when Zevran turns that charm in his direction, Daylen doesn't mind. He's the one leading this group: Zevran would have to be a fool not to try charming him.

The one thing Zevran doesn't do after that first night is flirt seriously with anyone except Leliana, and he doesn't flirt with Alistair at all. Daylen quickly concludes Zevran is incapable of not flirting, but there's no intent behind it. That it's also never directed at Alistair is something Daylen tries not to think about.

Daylen is entirely aware that Zevran is studying them in return, and that Zevran could very well be a spy, but so long as he's a spy who's helping them, Daylen isn't sure he cares. He needs to survive increasingly dangerous roads, and Zevran's ambush didn't fail for lack of skill on his own part. And what is there to spy on them for? Their location is the only secret they have, and Zevran could have provided Loghain with that information at any point while they were in Denerim, along with details of how and how well they fight. The longer they go without another ambush from Loghain, the more Daylen is inclined to trust that Zevran's offer of service was exactly what it appeared to be.

The darker slivers of Zevran's past that occasionally slip through in his stories only make Daylen trust him more, though logically he knows they shouldn't. He's seen mages betray other mages to the templars more than once, and he has no reason to think that a former Crow will be any better. Still, it's a relief to have someone around who understands even a little of what it was like to grow up in the Circle.

Not that Daylen realizes at first how much Crow training had in common with the parts of a mage's training no one talks about. Zevran doesn't usually tell anything except amusing stories about his past, and so for a while, all Daylen has are vague hints and a growing suspicion.

It falls into place one night when they're cleaning up after supper, just the two of them. Everyone else is occupied with chores of their own, and even Barkspawn is elsewhere, off hunting with Morrigan. Usually when they're working together, Zevran keeps up a steady stream of light conversation while Daylen does his best to contribute something, but his practice with Alistair went poorly that evening, leaving him ill-equipped to be social. For once, he's more tired than angry, his head aching fiercely despite the amount of elfroot he's taken. He even accepted Alistair's offer to trade watches, something he's never done before.

The third time he almost drops a bowl he's supposed to be washing, Zevran pushes him gently aside and takes over. Daylen is too tired to protest. It's easier to sit on the back step of Bodahn's wagon and just dry each dish as Zevran hands it to him.

"These practices," Zevran says cautiously after a while. "Are they as lacking in fun as they appear to be?"

"Probably worse," Daylen says, trying to sound cheerful rather than queasy, tired, and aching.

"Then you have my sympathy." He gives the bowl he just washed a quick check before passing it off to Daylen and picking up the next. "Because they look quite unpleasant enough from where I stand."

The ensuing silence lasts long enough Daylen assumes the conversation is done, but then Zevran asks quietly, "They are worth it?"

"Yes," Daylen says. He has to believe that, or he'll give up on the only hope he's ever had of protecting himself from templars, and go back to knowing he's powerless. Helpless. That he's nothing more than what the older mages taught him he would always be: a victim as soon as any templar wants to make him one.

The thought stirs enough anger to bring his chin up, and he says in a stronger voice, "It's already better than it was." Because if he can believe it hard enough, maybe that will make it true. "And we haven't been practicing very long, not compared to how long I trained as a mage, or you spent learning to fight."

"True enough," Zevran says with a nod.

Daylen has a sneaking suspicion Zevran heard the words he didn't say, but it's impossible to argue with someone who isn't arguing with him. Instead, he tries to steal a page from Zevran's book and make light of the situation.

"I mean, I'd hate to be doing all this for nothing," he says with forced humor. "I think by now I've taken more hits than every mage at Kinloch Hold combined."

Zevran makes a surprised noise. "So it is not so common a thing in the Circles? I had thought the templars used it as a punishment."

"Not often," Daylen says. "And now I understand why, I guess. They don't want us to get used to it." He finishes drying the bowl in his hands and adds it to the stack beside him. "Before Alistair and I started practicing, I'd only been hit twice in my entire life."

Zevran's eyebrows go up. "Very uncommon, then."

"Even more than you think," Daylen says. He doesn't want to talk about this, but his mouth keeps going, as if telling Alistair about it weeks ago has somehow made it harder to keep the words to himself now. "Because one of those times doesn't really count. All of us get hit once, when we're seven or eight years old. Or when we first come to the Circle."

"So that you learn to fear it," Zevran says, nodding.

What grabs Daylen's attention isn't that he understands; it's that he understands instantly, without thought or even the briefest of explanations, and considers it unexceptional. Combined with other hints Zevran has let drop, it shines a glaring light on Crow training and Zevran's past.

Stunned by the unexpected insight, Daylen doesn't think fast enough to re-direct Zevran the way he did Alistair. He can see the question coming but can't do anything to stop it.

"If that, then, was the first," Zevran asks, "what did you do to earn the second?"

Daylen's hands clench around the last bowl. After nearly a decade, the memory has lost its sharpest edges, but that doesn't make it pleasant. If it were anyone else asking, on any other night, he would cut the conversation short without caring how rude he had to be. Except if he's right about Crow training, and his memory isn't failing him on how old Zevran was when the Crows bought him...

"You need not answer," Zevran says quietly. "I should not have asked."

Daylen opens his mouth to say anything except what actually comes out. "I said no."

The words don't echo, no matter how much it feels like they do. Zevran is silent, packing away the cleaned and dried dishes as if nothing happened.

"That's how I earned the second one," Daylen says, wiping away a few imaginary drops of water from the bowl in his hands. "I earned it by saying no."

He holds out the bowl and forces himself to meet Zevran's eyes, relieved to find neither pity nor grief there. Zevran gives him a half smile that acknowledges the way the world is, and his tone is light as he says, "That generally goes over poorly."

"Yeah." Daylen returns that half smile with a crooked one of his own, amazed he can manage even that. "I learned not to bother."

Zevran's nod is sympathetic, but he's still smiling faintly. _"Laugh or cry,"_ that smile says, _"it's all the same to the Maker."_

 _"Laugh or cry,"_ Daylen thinks wryly. _"Or get very, very angry,"_

"I believe our duties are at an end for the day," Zevran says, taking the last bowl from Daylen and adding it to the stack. "A game before we sleep?"

Playing cards with Zevran is a waste of time in Daylen's experience: it's quicker and less embarrassing to simply hand over his money at the outset.

"We need not play for coin," Zevran says, correctly interpreting the look on Daylen's face.

"Not tonight," Daylen says. After a moment's consideration, he squeezes Zevran's shoulder. "But thanks." He can only hope Zevran understands that Daylen isn't thanking him for the invitation to play cards. "I'm going to walk around for a bit."

"As you like," Zevran says. "Stay close."

The words might have annoyed Daylen once, a reminder of something so obvious he doesn't need Zevran to tell him. No one goes far from camp at night, not even in a crisis. Where would they run for help? If an attack is beyond their abilities to fend off, then they'll die. It's as simple as that.

Two months ago, Daylen would have chafed at the implication he couldn't remember that for himself. Now they're just words, a parting comment no different than "good night" or "be safe."

"I will," Daylen says.

Before he can turn away, Zevran mirrors his earlier gesture, if more briefly: a quick touch, a light squeeze, and gone before Daylen has time to grow uncomfortable.

A little to Daylen's surprise, he finds the touch reassuring rather than intrusive. It's easier to smile this time, and he walks away...not settled, not after that conversation, but also not shaking, not enraged, not humiliated.

Camp is quieting down for the night, and he doesn't have to go far before conversations become meaningless sound. The background hum of voices reminds him the others are simultaneously there if he needs them and far enough away not to see him. He can lean his forehead against a tree and work on cramming certain memories back down into the darkness where they belong, without worrying someone will ask questions he doesn't want to answer. He can take deep breaths and remind himself there's no point crying over something that happened so long ago, and he can keep reminding himself until the tightness in his chest eases off.

By the time he returns to camp, everyone is asleep except Alistair and Barkspawn, and presumably whoever has the current watch. Daylen can't remember who that is tonight, but they'll be out walking the camp perimeter, checking the wards and watching for anything the wards have missed. If Daylen is lucky, they won't return to camp until he's in his tent and safe from questions about whether he's all right.

That still leaves Alistair and Barkspawn. They're sitting together by the fire, Alistair with his arm around Barkspawn's shoulders and his head leaned against hers as he stares into the embers. His attention is clearly turned inward, though, and his expression is unusually sober.

Daylen doesn't want to talk to them or anyone, but the door of every tent faces toward the fire, and there's no way he can sneak into his without being seen. With an internal sigh, he braces himself and keeps walking. If he walks fast enough, maybe he won't have to do more than wish Alistair a good evening.

Barkspawn sees him first, and she gathers herself to stand, only to hesitate for no apparent reason. Indecision is so unlike her, Daylen pauses despite his plan to walk past as quickly as possible. She looks from him, to Alistair, and back to him, whining unhappily the whole time, while Alistair continues to stare into the fire, oblivious.

That's as unusual as Barkspawn's hesitation. Any of them might occasionally become lost in thought, but the level of introspection necessary for anyone to shut out a dog whining in their ear is potentially deadly. Wards and nightly watches are all well and good, but they're only useful to someone who's paying attention.

Alistair snaps out of his thoughts, though, when Barkspawn licks his face. Unaware he's no longer alone out here, Alistair gives her the saddest smile Daylen has ever seen from him.

Without thinking, Daylen takes a step toward him. "Alistair?"

Alistair is on his feet so fast Daylen recoils despite the distance between them, and Barkspawn yips in alarm.

"Daylen!" His voice is low and harsh, his expression twisted with some strong emotion Daylen can't read in the dim light.

It could mean anything, but Daylen's stomach drops. Did Alistair overhear the conversation with Zevran? With the wagon blocking half their view, it's always possible, and Maker knows Daylen hadn't been paying as much attention as he otherwise might. There are a dozen legitimate reasons for Alistair to have been on the other side of the wagon, and the more Daylen thinks about it, the sicker he feels.

It's one thing to talk to Zevran about the templars' abuses. He understood instinctively why the templars would ensure that every mage knew exactly what it felt like to be hit with a smite, and that's more telling than maybe Zevran meant for it to be. Nothing Daylen says is likely to shock or upset him because he's already seen something like it, and probably had it done to him. He can sympathize, but he won't try to shoulder Daylen's pain or fear or anger.

The same can't be said for Alistair. He doesn't have memories of his own to shield him, and Daylen is glad. He doesn't want Alistair to have those memories, certainly not first-hand but also not because Daylen was careless enough to let him overhear details it was better he not know. There's nothing to be gained by hurting him like that and, judging by his current expression, a lot to be lost.

The silence has gone too long, and Daylen tries to think of something to say. His thoughts are a mess, though, and all he can think of are things Alistair either doesn't need to hear or doesn't deserve. Daylen is _not_ going to apologize.

"You startled me," Alistair blurts out, breaking the silence and startling Daylen in turn. "I…I must have fallen asleep."

His eyes were open the whole time Daylen was able to see him. The lie is so blatant, Daylen almost calls him on it, but he catches himself at the last moment. If he points out the lie, then they have to discuss the truth, and Daylen is afraid he knows what that means.

They stare at each other, the only sounds the thudding of Daylen's heart and Alistair's quick, shallow breaths, until Barkspawn stands and shakes herself off so vigorously Daylen can hear her ears flapping from across the fire. She looks ridiculous, and Daylen can't help but smile at her.

With a farewell lick to Alistair's hand, she trots across the fire to sniff Daylen from knees to sternum, poking her nose into every socially-embarrassing spot. He moves her head away from his crotch and gives her his hand to sniff instead, scratching her between the ears when she's licked his palm thoroughly.

The pause gives him a chance to compose himself, and he looks back up at Alistair feeling marginally more in control. Alistair's expression is wooden, as if he doesn't want to show any emotion for fear it will be the wrong one, but at least he no longer looks distraught.

"I wasn't paying attention," Alistair says stiffly. "I think something I ate didn't agree with me."

He really needs to learn how to lie better than that. For many reasons, but right now because it would make it easier for Daylen to pretend it's the truth.

"Do you need healing?" Daylen asks. He doesn't want to offer, doesn't want to get that close right now, but it's what he would say if he believed Alistair. Since they're pretending to believe bad lies, maybe they can pretend that he sounds doubtful rather than reluctant. Maker knows he has reason to be doubtful: his healing can be rough at times, no matter how much he tries to gentle it.

"I'm fine," Alistair says. "Or, I will be. Tomorrow. I'll be fine tomorrow. I won't slow us down, I just need to get a good night's sleep." The smile he sends Daylen's way is ghastly. "So, um, I guess I'll...go do that."

"Good night," Daylen says. If he was a better person--if he was Duncan--he would call Alistair back, sit shoulder to shoulder with him beside the fire, and draw out the truth. It's what he _should_ do, and he knows that even as he lets Alistair disappear into his own tent.

Barkspawn noses at Daylen's hand, and he grimaces at the cold wetness. "Fool dog," he murmurs to her, wiping his palm on the top of her head. Then, since his hand and her head are there, he scratches her behind the ears while he stares at Alistair's tent and tries to decide what to do. Long before he's done thinking, she gets tired of having her ears scratched and wanders off, probably hoping whoever's on watch can be persuaded to give her a few treats.

Daylen doesn't expect to get much sleep that night, but exhaustion wins out over everything else. If he dreams, he doesn't remember it in the morning, and he feels almost ready to talk to Alistair about that overheard conversation. The prospect doesn't thrill him, but in the bright light of day, it doesn't make him want to set things on fire or hide in his tent until the Blight solves all his problems for him.

His tentative plan is almost immediately spoiled by Alistair himself, who tries to act as if nothing is wrong and does a surprisingly good job of it. All Daylen's fears about how Alistair might act turn out to be misplaced. He neither withdraws into himself nor goes to the opposite extreme and attaches himself to Daylen's side. He doesn't shoot Daylen pitying or anguished looks, but he's also not excessively jovial, like a man trying to lighten a dying friend's mood. He walks most of the day beside Leliana, talking and occasionally laughing with her, and he's even willing to practice with Daylen that evening. Quiet, but willing.

By supper time, Daylen is tentatively optimistic he's escaped a discussion with Alistair about what it was like to grow up in Kinloch Hold. Maybe Alistair really did eat something that didn't agree with him, or maybe he spent the night convincing himself he misheard or misunderstood the conversation. The former option is laughable, but Daylen has no trouble believing the second: he's seen people perform far greater feats of self-deception in situations far less conducive to it.

While a part of Daylen wants to know which it is, most of him is happy to consider the matter closed. He adds it to the list of things he's ignoring and hopes none of it will come back to bite him later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Tatteredleaf and ricochet for reassuring me this chapter didn't look as bad as I felt like it did! <3 Otherwise, it probably would have been another month before I made myself post it. (This is me rolling my eyes at myself.)


	5. The Rage of Mountains When They Tremble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since the place I work has now made it mandatory that everyone work from home, I had an extra hour in my morning, plus I can edit while I eat lunch. And I did say that chapter 5 was almost ready... :)
> 
> A bit of a warning: toward the end of this chapter, there are a couple paragraphs about Daylen's past that are a bit more explicit than the story has been so far, at least as it relates to his childhood. If what Daylen is remembering was consensual, I would consider it barely over the line into a T rating, but...well, it's not consensual, and that changes things. If you want to avoid it, stop reading when Daylen falls asleep near the end of the chapter.
> 
> And to avoid misleading anyone about the overall explicitness of the chapter...there are a few _small_ parts that are way over the M-rating line and possibly all the way to E, but those are 100% consensual. So, you know, don't read this on the bus unless you have better control over your blush-reflex than I do.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: there's a town called Hurlock in the US, which explains why autocorrect keeps "helping" me by capitalizing the word.

Daylen's temper wears thinner the closer they get to Kinloch Hold, and he withdraws from the others in an attempt to spare them the brunt of it. Pulling into himself is the only way he knows to deal with his anger. He has so little experience with letting it go that he has trouble reining it back in once it escapes, and no one in their party deserves that. Better to walk ahead where he can pretend he's alone, glad for the endless road and the silence that was driving him mad only a few weeks ago.

At the Circle, he wouldn't have been able to separate himself physically, but he also would have been surrounded by friends who knew him and shared his anger. They made what space they could for each other, and they knew the difference between anger directed at them and anger with nowhere else to go. They would have left him alone, and done their best to keep others away, until his anger burned itself out.

No one travelling with him now understands any of that, and their misguided attempts to help only scrape on raw nerves. They want to talk, or joke, or trade insults. Anything except be silent. Even Zevran seems morally opposed to extended silences. Sten is the only quiet one among them, and he's usually scouting ahead with Barkspawn.

The day they would have reached the turnoff for the docks, Daylen calls a halt hours before they would normally stop. They could easily make the docks with daylight to spare and spend the night in real beds rather than stretched out on hard dirt yet again. If they make it as far as the docks, though, Daylen will have to go on to Kinloch Hold tomorrow--it would be stupid to go to the Circle's doorstep only to leave without entering--and the thought fills him with dread.

True, he has the elves behind him now, but he's still just a mage, facing down templars who have debased him, or seen him debased, his entire life. His strength has to be unassailable, or at best they'll turn him away, and at worst...well, the worst case is nothing he wants to think about.

So when they pass a good campsite around mid-afternoon, he uses it as an excuse to call a halt for the day. The others give him a few odd looks, but no one comments, and the routine of setting up camp is calming. Daylen still feels like a bowstring, tense with the potential for a killing strike, but at least he no longer feels like a bowstring at full draw.

The fire is burning well, the large cast iron pot heating at its center, when Alistair comes to stand beside him. If Daylen doesn't look at him, he feels like a templar, humming with power that promises pain to any mage stupid enough to cross him. It crawls across Daylen's skin like insects, and he moves a little farther away under the pretense of adding more wood to the fire.

"Tents are up," Alistair says, and Daylen looks at him, an automatic response to the sound of his voice. He's smiling and relaxed, tapping an extra tent peg idly against his thigh, and his smile brightens when he meets Daylen's gaze. His shirt sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and there's dirt on his face where he wiped away sweat while he was working.

He might feel like a templar, but he certainly doesn't look like one. Daylen smiles back.

From behind Daylen, Bodahn sighs. "A shame we needed the tents. It would have been nice to sleep in a real bed tonight."

Daylen's smile vanishes. Before he can answer, or take the high road by keeping quiet, Alistair says, "It's nice weather for sleeping out."

"True, true," Bodahn says on another sigh.

Fortunately for Daylen's temper, Bodahn's footsteps retreat back to his wagon. Once he's out of earshot, Daylen says to Alistair what he would never have said to Bodahn. "Sorry about having to sleep outside."

"Nice weather, remember?" Alistair says with a grin. No, he really doesn't look anything like a templar.

"I know everyone would have preferred a real bed."

"Eh, it's no worse than the stables," Alistair says.

He says it so casually that Daylen chuckles and asks, "Slept in a lot of stables, have you?"

"Sure." Alistair is still grinning at him, and just now, Daylen has absolutely no trouble remembering he's not a templar, never mind what power he might or might not have. "Well, really just the one. So I guess I haven't slept in a lot of stables, but I slept in one stable a lot. That counts, right?"

"Sure," Daylen says. He's too distracted by his own thoughts to know what he's agreeing to, just that in this moment, he's incapable of saying no to Alistair.

Then he listens to the words again, and his focus sharpens. "Wait, what?"

Alistair blinks at him, smile fading. "'Wait what' what?"

"You slept in one stable a lot? When?" Whatever he thinks of templars, he's sure they didn't make their recruits sleep in the stables. Unless it was a punishment?

"When I lived with Eamon," Alistair says. "Before I became a recruit."

"Why would you sleep in the stables?" Daylen's mind is racing for explanations that make sense. Alistair was young; maybe he snuck out to the stables at night? "Didn't you have a bedroom in the keep?"

"Oh." Alistair makes an embarrassed face. "Isolde didn't like me much."

Like that explains anything. "You were Eamon's ward."

"Yeah," Alistair says. "But Isolde thought I was _his_ bastard."

The way he says it makes Daylen think Alistair knows whose bastard he is, something Daylen hadn't realized. It's not his primary concern, though, not right now.

"So she stayed married to him, and punished you?" Daylen can hear his voice going flat and cold. All of his earlier anger is coming back, his ears starting to ring.

One of Alistair's shoulders rises and falls in a shrug. "It's just the way people are, right? Easier to hate me than him."

"And Eamon let her?"

"I'm sure he told her I wasn't his, but why would she believe him?"

"No," Daylen says, shaking his head. "I meant, he just let her kick you out like that?"

"I slept in the stables," Alistair says, "she didn't throw me out of the castle. Lots of people sleep worse places than that."

The casualness of it fans Daylen's anger. That Alistair should see this as...maybe not normal, but unexceptional. Someone gave him into Eamon's care--a responsibility Eamon accepted--and then Eamon allowed him to be banished to the stables because it was _easier_.

In Daylen's head, he imagines a smiling, genial older man, patting a young Alistair on the head. _"It's really too much trouble to argue with Isolde,"_ the man says in patient tones, _"so you'll have to go live in the stables. What's that? Oh, yes, of course I love you."_

If Daylen had grown up somewhere other than a Circle, he might be able to believe there was someone else there to cauterize the gaping wound Eamon left. Perhaps the kennel-master took Alistair in. Alistair's love of mabari is extreme even for a Fereldan; it could have endeared him to such a man and earned him a place, or it could have been born from a childhood spent around the animals. Maybe that imaginary kennel-master loved him and praised him and taught him the things Eamon should have. Not about hounds but about what it meant to love someone. What it was supposed to mean.

But Daylen did grow up in a Circle, and he knows better. He should have known it all along: the signs have been staring him in the face if he hadn't been blinded by his assumptions about what it must have been like to grow up with the power and privilege of an arl's ward. That, and Alistair's imaginary templar armor. Daylen isn't used to thinking of templars as victims, and so he never stopped to think about why Alistair might crave touch and praise so much.

 _"I like to be useful."_ Of course he does: people who are useful are less likely to be abandoned.

Alistair clears his throat awkwardly, breaking into Daylen's thoughts. "So, uh, do you want to practice? Since we've got some extra time?"

It's such a blatant attempt to change the subject that under other circumstances, Daylen might laugh. Amusement doesn't stand a chance against his anger, though.

He has just enough sense left to decline the invitation to practice--that's a dozen disasters waiting to happen, all rolled into one bad decision--but it leaves him nothing to do except stalk around the camp in a moving cloud of frustrated anger slowly boiling down into rage. After he snaps at Barkspawn for wanting him to throw sticks for her, he takes himself into the darkness to seethe where no one is in danger of catching the backlash.

Especially since the people he most wants to hit are nowhere in range. He spends a good while swearing in his head at Eamon and Isolde and whatever idiot put Alistair into their care, stomping around just for the physical satisfaction of pounding his feet into the ground. He breaks branches and throws rocks and generally does whatever damage he can without using his magic. Even in his current mood, he's too well trained for that, despite the little voice in his head that comments wistfully on the joys of a good bonfire. He could even pretend it was Redcliffe and Kinloch Hold he was burning.

He feeds the anger into wards, instead. They need to be laid, and if they're more powerful than he would normally make them, he has power to spare tonight. It won't matter unless something sets them off, and since anything that sets them off will have been hostile to Daylen's party before the wards dealt with it, Daylen doesn't much care.

By the time he's worn himself out, his legs are aching, and the sun has set, with the moon about to follow. Daylen sits on the trunk of a fallen tree to watch it slide toward the treetops, close enough to hear the camp but far enough to feel alone. The spring air is warm as he breathes it in, and he tries to relax, to just appreciate the pleasant heat before summer turns it brutal in a few months. Around him are the small sounds of animals hunting and trying not to be hunted, with the occasional low rustle of a breeze through the leaves of the trees.

It's all the things he's been missing these last few days: quiet and peaceful and completely free of other people. It doesn't help. Oh, his fury has died down, but that has more to do with exhaustion than serenity.

Any tiny bit of calm he's managed to gather disappears at the unmistakable sound of someone approaching, and Daylen's whole body goes rigid. He can't be near Alistair right now, he just can't, no matter how unfair that is. Not a single thing Daylen is angry over is Alistair's fault, but too much of it is tied up in him anyway. Being alone with him in the near dark will result in one of two things, and Daylen will hate himself for either tomorrow morning.

Except it isn't Alistair who steps into the moonlight and ambles toward him. Too short, too slim, too light on his feet. Too elven.

Daylen's fingernails dig into the bark of the tree beneath him. Because it turns out that as little as he wants to see Alistair right now, he wants to see anyone else even less.

"Everything all right?" he asks, before Zevran can speak.

"Camp is quiet enough," Zevran allows. For all it's a statement, his words turn the question back around on Daylen.

An unspoken question is easy to ignore, and Daylen does so without a twinge of guilt for the rudeness. "Glad to hear it."

He looks back up at the moon and lets the silence hang between them, trying to convey exactly how much he wants Zevran to go away. Unfortunately, Zevran is as capable of ignoring unspoken words as Daylen. He's also--perhaps unsurprisingly for an assassin--better at outwaiting a silence.

When Zevran sits on the tree trunk, just outside arm's reach, Daylen huffs an irritated sigh and surrenders. "Did you want something?" he asks, letting his tone make it clear what answer he wants to hear.

"I?" Impossible to say whether the surprise in Zevran's voice is real or feigned. "What might I need besides my knives, a good meal, and a place to sleep?"

Daylen gives him a narrow-eyed look, unsure if that's a veiled criticism of his decision to stop early for tonight. "Aren't all of those things back at camp?"

"Almost certainly."

Abandoning even the slightest hint of subtlety, Daylen asks, "Then why are you here and not there?"

Zevran's teeth flash in the moonlight. "Would you believe me if I were to say that I could not bear to be parted from your company for so long a time?"

"In other words," Daylen drawls, amused despite himself, "you drew the short straw to come after me."

Zevran doesn't pretend to misunderstand. "I leapt willingly into the fray," he says grandly. "How could I do otherwise?"

"Brave," Daylen says, mocking himself more than Zevran. His anger is still simmering just beneath the surface, but amusement has pushed it back far enough to give him a little perspective. "I'm not exactly pleasant company right now."

"My skin is not so delicate as all that."

But Alistair's might be. Daylen grimaces, embarrassed by the truth in those unspoken words and annoyed with Zevran for pointing it out. "He's tougher than people give him credit for."

Zevran blinks, then smiles faintly, and Daylen kicks himself mentally for the slip. Until that point, neither of them had mentioned anyone else, either by name or implication.

"He is, as you say, quite tough," Zevran agrees, "but we all have places where we feel a blow more keenly. He values your opinion of him, and were you to lash out in anger, you could cut him deeper than you realize."

It's very tactfully phrased, in a tone as delicate as the new leaves on the trees around them. Daylen puts it more bluntly. "It would hurt his feelings if I yelled at him."

Zevran raises a conceding hand.

"And you want to protect him." The words come out edged, almost a challenge. Zevran has no right-

Daylen stops short. Zevran has no right to what? Protect Alistair? Is Daylen really selfish enough to risk Alistair's safety--physical and otherwise--just so Daylen can claim the place of his sole protector?

Ugh.

Zevran is watching him, and when he sees Daylen looking back, he says with studied care, "He believes himself to be the cause of your current anger."

Of course he does. Why wouldn't he, after a childhood full of neglect masquerading as love?

"And you wonder why I'm mad at Eamon," Daylen mutters, not so much to Zevran as to the imaginary Alistair in his head.

It's Zevran who answers, though, and with a smile in his voice. " _I_ wonder no such thing."

Daylen thinks back to his conversation with Alistair, then shoots Zevran a sideways look. "I didn't realize you were close enough to overhear us."

Zevran shrugs, spreading his hands wide with a smile that's half innocent and half sly. Something about that smile and the easy grace of his movement sends an unexpected shock through Daylen's gut, reminding him that there is an outlet for all his restless energy that doesn't involve yelling at people he doesn't want to yell at. It's an outlet he was happy to take when he was still at Kinloch Hold, but he'd almost forgotten about it after two months where all he could do when he was angry was hope they ran across bandits or darkspawn before he choked.

Sex hasn't been an option since Ostagar. Out of the whole group, the only two Daylen would be even remotely interested in are Leliana and Alistair, and both options are equally bad. For all she's a bard, Leliana wouldn't understand a casual fuck; she'd see meaning that wasn't there, and Daylen won't do that to either of them. Alistair is probably no more capable than Leliana of treating sex casually, and even if he was, he isn't interested in men.

Zevran, on the other hand, is definitely interested in men, and he would understand a casual, uncomplicated fuck. They could enjoy each other's company, and maybe Daylen could wear himself out enough to sleep. The only question is whether Zevran is interested not just in men generally but in Daylen specifically.

Subtlety isn't Daylen's strength, but he's not completely ignorant of how to flirt. He turns toward Zevran, using the movement to slide a little closer. There's still space between them, but they're close enough to touch, if either of them reached out.

To Daylen's surprise, Zevran sighs and stands up. "I shall spare us both a little awkwardness and decline the offer you are considering."

Daylen flushes with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to make you uncomfortable."

"Have no fear," Zevran says. He steps closer, surprising Daylen more, and reaches out slowly enough for Daylen to block him or duck away.

Daylen does neither.

The touch on his cheek is light, the kind of caress he would expect from someone about to kiss him. Zevran is standing between his knees now, and he's short enough that even seated, Daylen is almost as tall as he is. Very much like they're about to kiss.

What offer did Zevran think Daylen was about to make, if this is how he declines it?

"Under other circumstances," Zevran murmurs, "I would very much enjoy a chance to become, shall we say, better acquainted."

He's close, and his fingers trail heat across Daylen's cheek. It's so completely at odds with his words that Daylen keeps still and silent, waiting.

"But in the current circumstances, it would not be a wise choice for me." He smiles down at Daylen, looking honestly regretful. "So while you have in no way made me uncomfortable, I must nevertheless decline."

Daylen wants to ask what those circumstances are, but he can't think how to ask without sounding like he won't take no for an answer, or like Zevran has offended him. He's not offended so much as confused.

It doesn't matter. He understands the refusal, and if Zevran chooses to keep his reasons to himself, that's his right. Daylen's curiosity is his own problem, as is his half-hard cock.

"All right," he says. He smiles to show he's joking as he continues, "But _you're_ making _me_ uncomfortable standing this close. I don't remember these trousers being so tight before."

Zevran laughs. He also, thank the Maker, takes a step back.

"I would never wish to make you uncomfortable," Zevran says as he offers Daylen a hand up, a ridiculous gesture given the difference in their heights.

Bemused, Daylen accepts it anyway, then mimics it to assist Zevran in stepping over the tree so they can return to camp. An equally ridiculous gesture when Zevran can jump higher than Daylen's head; climbing over a fallen tree is something he could probably do in his sleep. Still, the complete pointlessness of both gestures, the silliness of it, helps Daylen push his anger further away.

They walk back to the fire together, close enough they would be shoulder to shoulder if Zevran's shoulder wasn't low enough Daylen could prop his forearm on it. Daylen could put a little distance between them, but he decides he likes the occasional contact.

Nearly back to the main part of camp, Daylen looks up from watching his footing and finds Alistair frowning at him. He's all the way on the other side of the fire, seated on the ground with Barkspawn beside him, and he can't possibly see anything except two moving shadows. It's a surprisingly fierce frown for all that, despite how gently he's scratching Barkspawn behind the ears.

Given the ear-scratching, Daylen's first thought is that Alistair is annoyed with him for snapping at Barkspawn earlier, but when Barkspawn scrambles to her feet to go to Daylen, Alistair doesn't seem to notice. Not that, then. Is he worried about Daylen's safety, alone with an assassin who did try to kill him only a few weeks ago? If so, Daylen isn't quite sure what to make of all these people worrying about his welfare.

Hoping to allay Alistair's fears, Daylen gives Zevran's shoulder a quick squeeze. _"Everything's all right,"_ he wants to say. Alistair does not look like everything is all right.

Barkspawn shoves her head into Daylen's hip, and he drops to one knee to scratch both her ears at once. "Go on," he says when Zevran hesitates, glancing between him and the fire. "I need to apologize to someone first."

Zevran smiles and leaves him to it.

It's easy to apologize to Barkspawn, since she was never mad at him in the first place. That's the part that makes Daylen wince, that he yelled at the one person in this camp who won't blame him for the yelling, even when she should. To make it up to her, he throws sticks until she's panting and his arm is aching, and only then, when he can't put it off any longer, does he continue on to camp.

Alistair isn't frowning anymore, but he is sitting by himself, staring morosely down into his empty bowl. Concerned, Daylen accepts a bowl of his own from Bodahn and crosses the camp to Alistair, Barkspawn at his heels. As soon as they reach him, she flops to the ground, dirt flying up as she wriggles around to find a comfortable position.

"Hey," Daylen says.

"Hey." Alistair's voice is subdued, and he doesn't smile at Barkspawn's antics, which is unusual enough to take Daylen from concerned to alarmed.

"All right if I sit here?" Daylen asks.

Alistair finally looks up from his bowl to blink at Daylen in surprise. "Sure?"

"If you don't want company," Daylen begins, but Alistair is already shaking his head.

"No, no, it's fine!" He moves over as if one patch of ground isn't the same as every other around here. "Please, sit."

Daylen takes him at his word, though something still isn't right. Alistair is unusually fidgety, toying with his spoon and shifting his weight constantly. At least he smiles when Barkspawn rolls onto her back to present him with her belly to scratch.

"Fool dog," Daylen says affectionately. He glances at Alistair, trying to catch his eye to share a smile, but Alistair is intent on Barkspawn. A little too intent, like he's trying to avoid Daylen's gaze.

"Are you all right?" he asks Alistair.

"Of course," Alistair says without looking at him. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Just checking," Daylen says. What else can he say? If Alistair won't give him an opening, Daylen can't make him talk, and badgering him would be wrong no matter how tempting it is. He makes one last try. "You seem tense."

"I'm fine," Alistair insists.

"All right," Daylen says. He hesitates, then drops his spoon back into his bowl so he can touch Alistair's shoulder. Something he needs to remember to do more often, now that he knows what scars Eamon left behind.

Alistair jumps like Daylen pinched him and looks as surprised as if Daylen has never touched him before in the entire time they've known each other. It's startling enough that Daylen jerks his hand back, wondering if he managed to find a bruise or sore muscle Alistair hasn't mentioned.

"Sorry?" Daylen tries, at the same time Alistair blurts out, "Sorry!" For a moment, they stare at each other, both leaning away, both deeply confused.

Alistair cracks first, a smile he tries to contain until Daylen's lips start to twitch. Barkspawn whuffles happily and tries to help herself to Daylen's supper, only to be intercepted by a still-grinning Alistair, who pushes her head away with one hand while his other cups Daylen's to nudge the bowl from her immediate reach.

It's a thoughtless touch, something Alistair doesn't seem to realize he's going to do until he's done it, and so casual Daylen doesn't register it until Alistair stops smiling and lets go too fast.

Daylen is more startled by his own lack of a reaction to the touch than he is by the touch itself. When was the last time someone touched him and he simply didn't notice? Given the choice, he's always guarded his personal space jealously. It's not as if he finds touch repulsive or upsetting, he just likes to be in control of it. Accidental or not, allowed or not, wanted or not: he's usually aware of every touch the moment it happens.

"Sorry," Alistair says, breaking into his thoughts. "I know you don't like it when people touch you."

Which isn't entirely accurate, and it's suddenly important to Daylen that Alistair understand.

"It's all right." He knocks his knee against Alistair's and gives him a smile. When Alistair looks unconvinced, Daylen adds, still smiling, "Really. I'm not going to kill you for trying to save my supper from this fool dog."

That makes Alistair smile, if briefly. "I know you're not going to kill me."

It's clear from his face that he's going to continue to worry unless Daylen gives him a more complete explanation, no matter how uncomfortable it's likely to make both of them in the short term.

"I'm serious, it's all right. Just don't startle me when you touch me." After a moment's thought, he amends that to, "Don't startle me, don't grab me, and for the love of the Maker, don't startle me by grabbing me."

Alistair remains dubious, so Daylen adds, "Unless a hurlock is about to hit me, in which case, it's perfectly all right to grab me _and_ startle me."

"But only if it's a hurlock?" Alistair asks. "Not if it's a genlock?"

"Hmmm." Daylen pretends to think about it. "All right, I suppose if it's a genlock, that's all right, too."

That gets him a smile, the brilliant one he doesn't get to see very often, that Alistair seems to reserve for those moments when Daylen meets him joke for joke. To his disappointment, the smile doesn't last very long this time, though at least now Alistair looks more thoughtful than dubious.

Barkspawn, Maker bless her, chooses that moment to try for Daylen's supper again. The ensuing scuffle somehow devolves into her wrestling Alistair for a very large stick that was supposed to be firewood, while Daylen tries to keep his feet out of the way and eat his food as fast as possible. He's not quite done by the time they are, but Barkspawn looks too winded to make another attempt.

Alistair is just as winded. Also just as dirty, and just as pleased with himself. Looking at the two of them flopped out beside each other on the ground, Alistair crooning endearments to Barkspawn too softly for anyone else to hear, something sharp twists under Daylen's ribs. A warning from the coldly practical part of him, reminding him how much it will hurt when he loses them. He's only making it worse for himself by letting them get close, emotionally if not physically.

That part of him has done a good job of keeping the rest of him as safe as possible over the last two decades, but just now, Daylen doesn't want to listen. Deliberately ignoring the warning, he leans forward and rubs Barkspawn's head between her ears, then repeats the gesture on Alistair, tousling his hair as much as anything that short can be tousled.

"Hey!" Alistair protests, ducking aside and knocking Daylen's hand away. He flips onto his back, staring at Daylen upside-down and trying to look annoyed.

"You messed up my hair," Alistair accuses. "Now it's got dog fur in it."

Daylen grins unrepentantly. "Ooops," he says with a complete lack of sincerity.

Alistair pretends to be offended and turns again, this time putting his back to Daylen and his head on Barkspawn's side like she's a large, somewhat-winded pillow.

"Watch out," Daylen says, "you're getting dog fur in your hair, and I know how you feel about that."

Alistair replies with a rude gesture, and Daylen laughs. He very carefully does not think about the literal meaning of that gesture, or about how much he wants to ask if Alistair will need any help brushing off all that dust and dog fur. Alistair's trousers are covered in both, and Daylen would be more than happy to help clean them off, especially if they're still on Alistair at the time.

He scrapes the last bit of his supper from the bottom of his bowl and shoves his spoon into his mouth just in case the words try to slip out. At least from this angle, he can watch Alistair without anyone noticing. Alistair's back is still to him, hiding much of his face, but Daylen can see his cheek and the line of his jaw, both lightly covered in blond stubble after too many days without a shave. His shirt is askew from all his flailing about, leaving just a sliver of skin at the back of his neck visible between collar and hairline. Daylen can almost feel the fine hairs against his fingertips and hear Alistair's gasp of surprise.

Or maybe he wouldn't be surprised. Maybe he would make some pleased noise, bend his head forward so Daylen could thread fingers through his hair. Maybe he would groan if Daylen made a fist in it, pulled his head back and kissed him, licked into his mouth to draw more groans from him until he begged for what he wanted.

Daylen isn't sure what Alistair would beg _for_ , just that the thought of him panting and hard and desperate is intoxicating.

Too intoxicating. Daylen catches himself before his hand can do more than twitch in the direction of Alistair's hair, but it's a near thing. He needs to get away from here before he does something stupid.

"I think I'm going to bed," he says, in what he sincerely hopes is a casual tone. "You probably should, too."

"I'm fine," Alistair says, patting Barkspawn's flank. His voice is thick, like he's half asleep already, and Daylen wants so badly to touch him, to stroke his hair or curl up against his back with an arm around him. That warning in Daylen's head is sounding again, louder than ever, and he clenches his hands around his empty bowl to keep them from betraying him.

"You'll get cold," Daylen warns.

"I'm Fereldan." Alistair's head lolls back so he can grin at Daylen. "We don't get cold."

It's a slow, lazy smile, Alistair's eyes sleep-blurred and his body so relaxed he's practically boneless. Daylen swings dizzyingly back and forth between two desires: to curl up behind him and pet his hair until they both fall asleep, or to curl up behind him and fuck him until he can't remember his own name.

"We'll see about that," Daylen says as he stands. Standing is better. It puts that much more distance between them.

He sways on his feet, still fighting himself, but he makes it the first few steps on pure willpower, and once he's started moving, it's easier to keep going.

As he hands off his bowl to Sten, he notices Zevran and Leliana seated together on the far side of the fire from Alistair. Their heads are bent together, and they're whispering to each other in rapid Orlesian. By their voices, they're neither flirting nor fighting, but Daylen can't guess more than that.

He glances at them again as he crawls into his tent, and for just a moment, he would swear they're both glaring at him. Then he blinks, and their heads are once more bowed, and he decides he must have imagined it.

In his tent, he doesn't bother to lie to himself about what he's going to do. He just strips down, grabs a few things out of his pack, and stretches out on his bedroll. The canvas walls do little to block out the sounds of camp, but his tent is far enough away from the fire that no one else should be able to hear him, so long as he's quiet. He has plenty of experience with being quiet, and with pretending he's alone when he isn't. Having a space to himself, even one as small and with walls as flimsy as this, is nearly luxurious. A little elfroot salve to slick his hand, and he can lose himself in fantasies in the space of a breath.

He's back outside by the fire, only this time, he and Alistair are alone, curled together with Alistair's back against Daylen's chest. No clothes between them, no space at all, nothing but skin on skin as Daylen fucks him in long, slow strokes. Alistair moans and begs, rocking backward to drive Daylen's cock deeper, his own cock hard and dripping in Daylen's fist.

Daylen draws it out on purpose, both in fantasy and reality. Later, he's going to feel bad for using even an imaginary Alistair like this, but right now, he needs it. Needs an outlet for his restlessness, and a distraction from a hundred things he doesn't want to think about. Maybe if he draws it out long enough, he'll be tired enough to sleep, afterward.

It doesn't work. Oh, it leaves him drained and exhausted, but he's as restless asleep as he was awake. Memory and imagination twist together into nightmares. Child-Alistair cries in the night, alone in Kinloch Hold's library until he isn't alone: there are templars with him, only he's still crying because they aren't there to comfort him. They punish him and abuse him and use him, in all the ways they punished and abused and used Daylen and the other mage children he grew up with.

Then the dream changes again, and Daylen is in Alistair's place, crying in pain and impotent rage while an adult Alistair looks on. Sometimes disgusted, sometimes dispassionate, sometimes far too interested.

The nightmare itself isn't new, but it's no easier to shake off for being familiar. A shadow of it clings to Daylen the next morning even after they've broken camp, and when they reach the road that would take them to Kinloch Hold, Daylen ignores it to continue west.

Orzammar first. Then Haven if they can find it, and Redcliffe. And then maybe they'll skip Kinloch Hold all together. If he has the dwarves and the Dalish and Ferelden's arls behind him, maybe he can ignore that last treaty.

And at least for now, he can pretend he's done with Kinloch Hold forever.


	6. Earthquake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still working on that last chapter, because my brain kept wanting me to write things that didn't fit this story. I think I've purged a good bit of that now, so maybe my brain will focus on what I want it to focus on.
> 
> We can but hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a game standpoint, I understand why you're only allowed to have three companions with you at any one time, but I found it awkward for this story and eventually decided to ignore it. So on any given quest, assume everyone is present unless stated otherwise. I'm also fudging some other parts of canon, but when am I ever not? As if the pairing wasn't a big red sign saying that I consider canon more like guidelines.

They're barely an hour down the road the next morning when Sten says abruptly, "This is where we fought the darkspawn."

Alarmed, Daylen looks around, then realizes Sten is lost in the past, not warning them about some present danger.

"This is where I last had my sword." Sten sounds like he's speaking of a person, not a weapon, and for all that his voice is as steady as ever, there's pain in his eyes.

"Your sword?" Daylen asks.

"My sword." Sten's jaw works for a moment, then he lays out the story in the same level voice Daylen imagines he'll use to give his report to his Arishok. The darkspawn appearing from nowhere, Sten falling to their attack only to wake and find himself the sole survivor, the blind panic that followed when he learned his sword was missing. Daylen knows the story from there, but he lets Sten finish, even though he winces inside at the reminder of the deaths that followed.

When Sten is done, Daylen forces himself to stop and think before opening his mouth. His first reaction is disbelief at the idea of Sten panicking over anything. His second is to point out how easy it is to find another sword, such as the one Sten is carrying right now. His third, from that brutally practical voice in his head, is aimed more at himself than at Sten: this is why it's dangerous to become attached to anything or anyone. It can all be taken away in an instant, and when it is, he'll lose whatever piece of himself he invested in it.

He takes a deep breath and lets go of all those thoughts. "And this is where you fought."

"Yes."

The word is so flat, Daylen doesn't know what to do with it. Does Sten want to find the exact site and look for his sword? Does he want comfort, or sympathy? Or is he simply telling Daylen what happened as an oblique warning about the need to stay vigilant, that there could be darkspawn anywhere?

Why does he have to be so bloody hard to read?

Since Sten is rarely oblique and never seems to want comfort, Daylen hazards, "Did you want to look for it?"

"If time will allow."

Because Daylen might say, _"No, Sten, we'll walk right past the spot where your friends died and you lost a sword that you call your soul."_

Daylen doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. "Do you know which way to go from here?"

Unsurprisingly, Sten does. Also unsurprisingly, the sword isn't there, though the scavenger who is there can at least give them a name and a place to start.

Sten seems to consider the information useless, but Daylen makes a note of it. They'll have to pass through the market to reach Orzammar's gates, and there's no reason they can't look for this Faryn at the same time.

They return to the road, and the silence once again creeps up to surround them. It leaves Daylen nothing to do but think: about Sten's sword and his pain as he talked about losing it, and about Alistair's childhood and his apparent belief that there's nothing wrong with banishing a child for the sin of existing. They're not pleasant thoughts, but Daylen can't shake them off.

Around midafternoon, Zevran comes up to walk beside him, and Daylen realizes with a start that no one else has even tried to talk to him since they left the place where Sten lost his sword.

"Are you their stalking goat again?" Daylen asks as Zevran falls into step with him.

"Is it so difficult to believe that I pine away in your absence?"

"Yes." For all the flat finality of his tone, Daylen can't quite suppress a smile. "Especially since I've been right here all day."

"Have you?" Zevran asks, abruptly serious. "It seemed otherwise to me."

Daylen swallows his first response and goes instead for a neutral, "Oh?"

"I may have been mistaken." Zevran's shrug is so casual it undermines itself. "Your attention seemed to be elsewhere than on the bucolic splendor around us."

"Did you really just say 'bucolic splendor'?" Daylen asks incredulously, avoiding the point.

"Can you think of a better way to describe this?" The sweep of Zevran's hand encompasses the blue sky above them, the flowers blooming in the ditches along the road, and the gentle breeze that's just enough to keep the sun's heat from becoming oppressive.

Something else Daylen hadn't noticed until now: it's a beautiful day, as close to perfect as exists in the real world. After weeks and weeks spent walking the length of Ferelden twice, Daylen knows exactly how rare a day this is.

"All right," he admits grudgingly. "It is nice."

"Nice," Zevran says in disgust. " _Nice._ You Fereldans have not a drop of poetry in your souls."

"Sacrifices we're willing to make, if it means we can annoy an Antivan."

"Ah ha! I suspected as much."

"Suspected what?" Alistair asks from Daylen's other side, making him jump.

"Where did you come from?" Daylen demands before he can think.

"Well you see," Alistair drawls, "my mother met my father, and they-"

Daylen cuts him off with a snort. "Forget I asked. I just meant you startled me."

"Oh." Concern draws Alistair's eyebrows down. "Sorry, I didn't think."

He's thinking of Daylen's words from last night and taking them a bit too literally. "That's not quite what I meant when I said don't startle me," Daylen says, as mildly as he can when he wants to sigh deeply.

When Alistair smiles, Daylen is glad he kept the sigh to himself.

"If you'll pardon me," Zevran says, "I believe Leliana wants my assistance with something."

Daylen tears his gaze away from Alistair's smile to look back at Zevran. "Sure, no problem." As Zevran begins to drop back to join Leliana by the wagon, Daylen stops walking and touches him lightly on the shoulder. "And thank you."

"You are, of course, most welcome, but I did nothing."

"It would have been a shame if I'd missed all this bucolic splendor."

Zevran smirks at him. "Truly."

"Bucolic splendor?" Alistair demands.

This time, Zevran laughs as Daylen says, "You're not Antivan, don't worry about it."

"But you're not Antivan, either."

"No," Zevran says emphatically. "He is most definitely not."

"Didn't Leliana need you for something?" Daylen turns pointedly back in the direction of Orzammar-

And runs straight into Alistair. It's much like running into a wall, and Daylen bounces off him. Alistair catches his elbow automatically, then stiffens, clearly afraid he might have upset Daylen but equally unwilling to just let him land on his ass in the dirt.

Alistair's hand is enough to keep him on his feet, and Daylen could get his own balance back from there. He doesn't _need_ to use Alistair's shoulder to steady himself. He uses it anyway, squeezing it in silent thanks and hoping Alistair understands the whole message Daylen is trying to send.

_"I'm not going to break if you get too close."_

Thinking about nothing more than reinforcing the message with a smile, Daylen meets Alistair's eyes, only to realize abruptly how close they're standing. His heart, still beating faster than normal after his near-fall, begins to pound. A small part of that is the voice in the back of his head shouting warnings about templars, but only a small part.

As close as they are, the small difference in their heights is enough that Alistair has to look up to meet Daylen's gaze, and when their eyes meet, Alistair draws in a small, sharp breath. Face turned up and with his lips slightly parted, he looks very much like someone waiting to be kissed. Daylen wouldn't be opposed to the idea if he thought Alistair wanted it, but when has Alistair ever been interested in men? And reading his face now is nearly impossible. It's not so much expressionless as too full of expressions for Daylen to identify any of them, except one.

Fear.

No way to tell what Alistair is afraid of, especially given he hasn't stepped back. If he's afraid of Daylen, why stand so close? And yet, when is fear ever that logical, especially in a man used to running into the heart of a battle?

"Are we stopping early again today?" Morrigan asks snidely from right beside him

Startled yet again, Daylen jerks his arm away from Alistair as he turns to face her. Past her shoulder, he catches a brief glimpse of Zevran, who looks ready to choke her with his bare hands before he smooths out his expression. Interesting

But also not immediately relevant. Daylen gets control of his own expression and says evenly to Morrigan, "No, just a short break."

When he turns back to Alistair, there are a few feet of empty space between them.

Alistair maintains that distance for the rest of the day, but only that distance. He sits near Daylen while they take a brief rest, and he walks at Daylen's side when they head out again, always far enough away to avoid even accidental contact but also always there. It's a decidedly mixed message that Daylen could clarify simply by closing that distance himself, if he just knew what it was Alistair was afraid of.

The possibility that makes the most sense is also the one Daylen likes least, because it's the one he can't do anything about. In Alistair's place, Daylen would be wary of any commander who appeared too interested in him. Daylen doesn't think of himself as Alistair's commander, but Daylen's opinion doesn't matter if that's how Alistair sees him. Would Alistair say no if Daylen--if his commander--was the one asking?

Or maybe the better question is whether Alistair would say no to anyone. Would he be willing to trade sex for love after a lifetime of abandonment and neglect? He certainly wouldn't be the first person to make such a bargain, but Daylen has no desire to be the other party in that transaction.

Daylen contemplates simply coming right out and asking, but the thought is for his own amusement more than anything. If Alistair truly is afraid of him, or of what he might try to do, then a direct question will get nothing except what Alistair thinks he wants to hear. Daylen can listen to Alistair tell him what he wants to hear all on his own, without risking their friendship or the relative harmony the whole group has started to build. Imaginary conversations are safer than the real thing, and as the day goes on, Daylen has quite a number of them, trying to turn the puzzle at the right angle to see how it all fits together. By the time they make camp that night, all he's done is talk himself in circles so many times he's dizzy.

 _"I need you to give me a hint,"_ he says silently to his imaginary version of Alistair, when the real Alistair passes him a bowl of stew with painful care to avoid letting their hands brush. And because the conversation isn't real, Daylen can be brave. _"I'm scared. I'm scared of you, and I'm scared of me. I don't want to be the kind of person who takes advantage of their power."_

His imaginary Alistair laughs and teases him for thinking too highly of himself. Then kisses him, and all right, that conversation needs to stop right there. Those aren't the kinds of things he needs to be thinking about when he's sitting beside the real Alistair. Those thoughts are for later, when he's alone in his tent.

The problem is that most of his imaginary conversations over the next few days end up with Alistair naked, except for the ones where Alistair punches him, and the ones where Alistair cries. At no point does Daylen feel any more confident about the outcome of such a conversation in the real world, so he keeps his mouth shut and hopes for inspiration.

Inspiration fails to put in an appearance, though not for lack of opportunity. Alistair is beside him most of every day, though on the rare occasions Daylen is talking to Zevran, Alistair always finds excuses to be elsewhere. Daylen can hardly blame anyone who chooses to be wary of an assassin who did try to kill them only a few weeks ago, so he doesn't say anything about it. Alistair and Zevran will either find common ground or they won't, and even if they don't, Alistair doesn't snipe at Zevran the way he does at Morrigan. Until and unless he starts, Daylen intends to stay out of it.

No, if Daylen is going to interfere, it won't be with Alistair's distrust of Zevran, because Alistair can work out that problem on his own. Daylen would rather put his effort toward a problem Alistair can't solve, because he doesn't seem to understand that it is one.

The memory of that casual shrug dismissing Eamon's treatment eats at Daylen, and so he starts finding excuses to touch Alistair. Despite the occasional suggestions from less-than-helpful parts of his body, Daylen never lets any of them become even remotely sexual. All he wants is to give Alistair just one of the many things Eamon denied him.

The problem is that the sorts of casual touch other people take for granted are exactly the kind that Daylen never learned how to give or accept easily. He has no memories from before the Circle, and the mages responsible for Kinloch Hold's nursery were well-intentioned but not especially nurturing. Looking back on it as an adult, Daylen can appreciate their reluctance to form an attachment to someone who was both helpless and impossible to protect, but he hadn't understood that as a child. By the time he left the nursery for the apprentices' barracks, he'd already learned how to turn anger into a spiked shield, protection and weapon both.

Now he studies the others and tries not to let anyone see how much thought goes into apparently thoughtless touches. Alistair might be afraid of Daylen pressuring him for more than he wants to give, but he definitely likes to be touched. A clap on the back, Daylen's shoulder leaning against his when they stand next to each other, even the occasional one-armed hug: it's like pouring water onto parched earth. At first it just runs off, but once it starts to sink in, Daylen can't give him enough.

Only the hugs are actually difficult for Daylen. If he claps Alistair on the back or leans against his shoulder, the contact is under Daylen's control. A hug that feels natural--because the gesture is worse than useless if Alistair thinks Daylen doesn't want to do it--requires he surrender some of that control. If he had to escape, it wouldn't be as easy as simply stepping back, and from that close, Alistair feels a little too much like a templar. The power to knock Daylen to his knees and take away his magic is impossible to ignore.

But for one of the few times in his life, knowing the source of the problem actually makes it easier to deal with. Logic is...not exactly helpful, but the distance provided by thinking through his own reaction is usually enough to take anxiety down to apprehension. As they make their way to Orzammar, the road growing steeper and the air colder with every passing day, apprehension becomes wariness and eventually, simple awareness. The power is there, impossible to forget, but Alistair's sword is there, too, and Daylen doesn't avoid him when he's wearing that.

The comparison isn't perfect, but it helps ground him when he needs it, and so he doesn't let himself spend time picking it apart.

There are plenty of other things for him to pick apart, after all. The longer he leads, the more he both admires and misses Duncan. In the empty hours of their walk to Orzammar, Daylen has plenty of time to think, and when he isn't studying the others to learn how to act like a normal person, he obsesses over every memory he has of Duncan, along with whatever secondhand memories he can pry from Alistair. Anything for even the smallest clue as to how to lead this odd assortment of people who somehow all look to him for direction.

His memories of Duncan and his time spent learning Alistair are surprisingly good lessons, supported on an equally surprising foundation of memories of Greagoir and Irving. Daylen wasn't fond of Irving and he loathed Greagoir, but they both led people who were often strong-willed and convinced their own way was the right one. Greagoir knew how to project certainty and confidence, and Irving knew how to coax disparate groups into cooperation, and between them, Daylen begins to find his own ways to lead.

The role will probably never feel natural, but as the road falls away behind them, it begins to fit less badly. Which is just as well, because he needs all his growing skills when they reach Orzammar.

###

After a few days in the city itself, all Daylen wants is an enemy he's allowed to set on fire. He never got involved in Kinloch Hold's politics, and he has no desire to get involved in Orzammar's, not when he knows so little of the history between these factions. There are too many undercurrents here, and too few people willing to give him information he trusts.

By the time they head out into the Deep Roads, he's almost glad to see darkspawn again. A nice simple fight, against an opponent he understands, is welcome after the mire of others' political maneuvering and his own maneuvering to avoid being trapped by theirs.

Except the deeper they travel, the more he realizes that he doesn't understand the darkspawn nearly as well as he thought he did. By the way Alistair goes increasingly quiet and pale, he didn't know any of it either, and Daylen has to wonder if anyone does. Surely the Grey Wardens must understand what it is they're fighting, but if Duncan knew even the smallest hint of the darkspawn's origins, why didn't he share that knowledge with Alistair and Daylen?

Daylen is proud of his self-control when they find Hespith: he stays calm the whole time she stares at him from those dead eyes, and when they've finally outpaced the echo of her song in his ears, his voice is steady as he calls a brief halt. He makes sure everyone is drinking water and no one looks too wild-eyed, then he goes a few turns of the tunnel back the way they came and proceeds to throw up violently and repeatedly.

When it's over, he huddles on the ground with his arms around his stomach, shaking in alternating waves of rage and terror and something that feels like pity but burns so fiercely the word is entirely inadequate. How many? How many women have the darkspawn dragged down here over the centuries? Suddenly, the horde marching on Ostagar is sickening on a whole new level, and it was already the stuff of nightmares. Now Daylen can't help but think of it in terms of the women made to suffer until they were used up and allowed to die.

For the first time, he wishes he'd brought Barkspawn with him, though his reasons for leaving her behind are just as valid now as they were before. Bodahn's wagon would have slowed them too much once they got past the foothills, but Daylen wasn't prepared to leave him alone, even in the small trade town where they'd decided he would wait for them. Bodahn needed some kind of protection, and Barkspawn doesn't need to risk swallowing any more darkspawn blood than necessary, so Daylen left the two of them behind together, pleased at being able to solve two problems at once.

He's glad Barkspawn is safe, but right now, he wishes there was a way to have her with him anyway. He wants to wrap his arms around her and listen to her heart beating in his ear, to have the solace of a warm, living person who won't try to comfort him with lies.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, headed toward him from where he left the others. He should get off the ground before whoever it is can see him, maybe even wash away the mess on the ground if he can control his magic well enough. Letting anyone see him like this could undermine all his efforts to earn the others' trust in his leadership.

He can't make himself move, not even enough to turn his head or open his eyes.

The footsteps grow louder, now only one turn away. Not measured enough to be Sten, too measured to be Oghren, too heavy to be Leliana or Zevran or Morrigan. That leaves only one person, though the steps are loud even for Alistair. He has to be nearly stomping his feet to make so much noise. Under other circumstances, Daylen might be curious about that, but right now, he's too afraid of what will happen when Alistair finds him and starts talking. All the rage Daylen feels has nowhere to go, and it won't take much for it to focus on Alistair, not when Daylen's control is stretched to the limit just trying not to scream.

 _Go away,_ Daylen thinks at him. _Go away go away go **away.**_

Alistair doesn't go away. His unnaturally heavy steps round the last corner and falter, and Daylen waits, dreading what's coming next. There's nothing Alistair can say that will make this better, and so many things that will make it infinitely worse.

When Alistair's steps resume, they're quieter but still headed toward Daylen, giving Daylen something else to worry about. If Alistair touches him...

Alistair stops right beside him, and Daylen forgets to breathe, too busy praying silently for Alistair to go away. Daylen's heart is pounding in his ears, so loud he almost doesn't hear the soft _tick_ of something hard being set on the ground by his head. Before he can even start to wonder what made the sound, Alistair turns and walks away, back the way he came, still without saying a word.

Surprise does what nothing else could. Daylen opens his eyes and turns his head enough to look.

There's a tin cup sitting on the ground, far enough away he won't knock it over by accident but close enough he would only have to reach out his hand to pick it up. The water in the cup is still sloshing gently from when Alistair set it down. Alistair himself is walking away without looking back.

For the first time, tears prick behind Daylen's eyes, and his mouth opens before he can stop it. "Alistair?"

His voice is nothing more than a harsh croak, barely louder than the sound of Alistair's armor rattling, but Alistair stops so fast he almost loses his balance. He doesn't turn around, though, so Daylen takes a deep breath and tries again. "Alistair."

Alistair turns with a reluctance that makes no sense until he turns enough for Daylen to see his face, which is red and blotchy from crying. His chin is out and his jaw clenched, daring Daylen to mention it.

As if Daylen has any idea what to say about anything. The rage drained away when he wasn't looking, and he wants it back, because without it, all he has are fear and grief. At least rage gives him strength. He wants to be strong, for himself and for Alistair, not huddled on the ground afraid to so much as sip that water in case it comes back up.

There are no words to encompass everything inside Daylen, so he lets his body do what it wants. He straightens enough to unwrap one arm from around his chest and holds out his hand to Alistair.

Alistair looks from his hand to his face, clearly conflicted. "You don't-"

"Please?" Daylen asks, and Alistair comes back, pulling off his gauntlets as he crosses the space between them.

His hand is warm, sticky with sweat and blood, and he returns Daylen's crushing grip with one equally tight. Still moving on instinct, Daylen wraps his other hand around Alistair's and pulls it toward himself, forcing Alistair to drop to one knee as Daylen presses his forehead to the back of Alistair's hand and curls forward around it. He's crying now, silent tears he doesn't want Alistair to see, doesn't want anyone to see, doesn't even want to acknowledge. The last time he cried from something other than anger, he was twelve years old and reeling after the second time a templar hit him with a smite. Of all the things that have happened between then and now, it's ridiculous to cry over something that doesn't even affect him, not directly. The worst the darkspawn can do is kill him, which makes them less frightening than the templars. It's not as if they can turn _him_ into a broodmother.

He thinks of Leliana, of Morrigan, and he gags, his stomach trying to turn itself inside out again.

Alistair's free hand brushes lightly over Daylen's hair, gentle fingers combing through the sweat-damp strands. Daylen rubs his forehead against the back of the hand he's holding, clutching at fingers and wrist and not caring what he might be smearing on his face. Touch outside of sex is something he craves so rarely, he doesn't know what to do with the need clawing under his skin. He can't speak, can't move beyond the small back-and-forth motion of his head, can't do anything except cling to Alistair's hand and cry.

###

By the time Daylen is able to collect himself, his head and his eyes both ache. Letting go of Alistair's hand is a struggle, but the longer they linger, the greater the chance of an attack, and he's already put them at enough of a risk. Besides, the sooner they get what they came for, the sooner they can leave this place behind.

Leave it behind physically, at least. Leaving it behind mentally won't be so easy. The Deep Roads have given Daylen a few decades' worth of new nightmare fodder, and he suspects the others are likewise oversupplied.

With a sigh, Daylen forces his fingers to unclench and release Alistair's hand. Alistair doesn't immediately do the same, and they stay that way for a moment, Daylen half bent over, Alistair kneeling with a hand locked around Daylen's. For once it doesn't bother him to be trapped like that--maybe because he didn't want to let go in the first place--but he tugs gently on his hand anyway. It would be too easy to fold himself back down into a ball and cry until the darkspawn find them, and holding Alistair's hand doesn't help with that.

Alistair's whole body jerks, his hand snapping open to let go of Daylen's like it's suddenly burned him. Daylen feels like a drum, skin stretched too tight over the hollowness inside his chest, and he can't think what to say to make it clear to Alistair that his touch wasn't unwanted so much as wanted too much.

His gaze falls on the cup of water, sitting undisturbed to one side. Picking it up, he takes a long, careful drink and then meets Alistair's eyes. They're as red-rimmed as Daylen's feel, and tight with tension.

"Thank you," Daylen says. His voice is a hoarse whisper, not at all normal, but he doesn't bother trying again. He just raises the cup and hopes Alistair understand that the water is only the smallest part of what Daylen is thanking him for.

Alistair ducks his head in a sharp nod and looks away.

He looks back quickly enough when Daylen touches two fingers to his cheek, right below his eye. As poor a healer as Daylen is, even he doesn't need touch for a spell this small, but he wants one more moment of skin on skin. He wants more than that, really--he wants to kiss Alistair more than he ever has before, just for the intimacy and immediacy of such a touch, another person close enough to share breath--but touching Alistair's cheek is the only safe option right now.

Once the redness has faded from Alistair's face, along with Daylen's excuse to touch him, Daylen drops his hand. Alistair immediately turns away again, and Daylen wishes distantly that he hadn't. He wants to know what expression Alistair is hiding from him, and he'll want the knowledge passionately when he no longer feels like his emotions have all been drained out of him.

For now, though, he doesn't care enough about anything to press the issue. Better to do to his own face what he did to Alistair's, taking the pain at temples and eyes to a level that will allow him to think. By the time he's done and drunk the last of the water, Alistair is on his feet, gauntlets back in place and expression fixed in grim, determined lines.

Daylen accepts the hand offered to help him to his feet, not sure if he could get up without it and not prepared to try. There's a certain black humor in the thought of hitting his head on a rock and dying from something so mundane after all the worse dangers he's survived, but he doesn't share the joke. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing Alistair would find funny right now.

Only when they return to where the others are waiting does Daylen realize that in his distress, he never considered how they might have reacted to Hespith's revelation. Zevran's expression is locked down into utter blankness, and one of his arms is tight around Leliana, whose eyes are red from crying. Oghren looks sick, Sten even blanker than Zevran, and Morrigan angry enough to set fire to the stone around them.

At the sight of Leliana and Morrigan, Daylen's stomach twists like a cloth being wrung out. He should send them both back to Orzammar. So what if he needs their skills. So what if the walk there and back will cost him weeks. How can he put them at risk for something far worse than the death they all thought was the worst that could happen?

Morrigan's lips pull back from her teeth in a snarl. "Don't even try," she says, as if she can read his mind.

Daylen looks at Leliana, who gives him a small shake of her head. A gentler refusal than Morrigan's, but a refusal all the same.

"It's my choice," Leliana says softly, her eyes on his. "Don't take that from me."

Too much of Daylen's life has been ruled by other people's ideas of what's best for him. There's no response he can give except a nod.

"I won't let them take me," Morrigan says. "If it comes to it, I'll make sure they can't."

"It won't come to that," Leliana says.

Daylen is more reassured by Morrigan's brutal practicality than Leliana's optimism, but he doesn't know how to say so in a way that won't make this whole conversation even worse, almost certainly without doing any good.

"Let's move," he says instead.

He picks up his pack and turns to find Zevran standing unexpectedly close. Before Daylen can step back, Zevran steps even closer and, under the guise of helping Daylen shoulder the pack, murmurs, "Should it become necessary, I will do my best to ensure they do not take her."

Their eyes meet from only a few inches away, and Daylen knows what Zevran means. He won't take Leliana's choice from her, but he can't deny the comfort in knowing someone else is there to protect her, should the worst happen.

Then there's nothing else to do except move on. Daylen would have thought he'd be used to that by this point in his life, but the burning tightness just below his heart says otherwise.

All that practice is good for one thing, though: he knows how to wall off his emotions so he can deal with the immediate crisis. He'll pay the price for that later, but he doesn't worry too much about it. If there isn't a later, then he won't have to pay the emotional debt he's accruing, and if there is, then at least he'll have their survival as a consolation.

###

Two days ago, seeing a broodmother would have been horrifying, and fighting one would have been worse. Now, with everything Daylen has learned, it feels more like a mercy killing. He tries hard not to think about who he's granting mercy to, just as he tries not to remember that this obscenity was once a person.

Both would be easier if he didn't know its--her--name.

It would also be easier if he didn't know who had forced her into this fate, and why they had done it. Of all the things he's learned down here, that's the one he most wants to forget. He wants to go back to a time when he thought no one could possibly treat another person worse than templars treated mages.

As he watches Laryn die, all Daylen can think is that Hespith was right. What Branka did is unforgivable. There's no penance in this world or the next that could redeem her, and Daylen will hate the Maker and Andraste more than he already does if their mercy ever extends to her.

There are many people Daylen despises but only a few he truly hates. He adds another name to that list as they leave Laryn's deformed body and continue on toward the Anvil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I've always found meeting Hespith to be the creepiest part in any of the games, but writing this story, thinking about it from Daylen's point of view, it hit me harder than it usually does. I'm hoping I managed to share some of that. :)


	7. Shatter the Mountains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry, y'all. I'm normally really bad at tracking how much time has passed (if you ask me when something happened, it's almost always either last week or "a couple years ago, I guess?"), but being inside all day, every day has made it about a hundred times worse. I got focused on messing with some shit later in the story, and I had no idea it had been this long since I posted a chapter. I am so sorry. /o\
> 
> On a different note, this is also where we start getting into me taking liberties with how healing worked in the games. Only the start, though. +evil grin+

They step out of Orzammar's gates into bitterly cold air that might be the best thing Daylen has ever felt, and he doesn't think he's alone in that. There's a long moment where they all just stand and breathe, trying to let the cold air and brilliant sunshine purge the last weeks from their minds. Daylen hopes the others are having better luck than he is, though he can't deny that it all seems marginally less awful now he has the sun on his face again. Even the wind is welcome, though his hair has grown long enough in the last few months to blow into his eyes and mouth until he scrapes it back from his face with his hands.

No one objects to the pace he sets down the mountain, or to the fact that he waits almost too late before stopping for the night. They can't even get the tents up before it's dark, and Daylen and Morrigan have to scatter wisps around the camp to give everyone enough light to work. But if it gets them farther from the Deep Roads faster, Daylen has a feeling he could get away with nearly anything, and the next day is no different, all of them in a hurry and more focused on their footing than anything else.

Which is why they don't realize the bandits are there until it's too late.

Their saving grace is that these bandits are no more organized than any of the others they've fought. Beyond the initial ambush--which, admittedly, worked perfectly--there's no overall strategy, no tactics for the group as a whole. They split into groups of two and three, the members of each smaller group working together but giving no thought to what other groups might be doing at the same time. If there weren't so many of them, it would hardly be a fight at all.

But there are a lot of them, and tactics or no tactics, they nearly win on nothing more than surprise and numbers. An arrow sinks into Daylen's thigh and Zevran narrowly misses a club to the head before Alistair can get his shield into position, and even then, there's a moment where the bandits press them toward the drop-off on one side of the road. Daylen's staff is tangled in his robes and Leliana is trying to string her bow without getting stabbed, and Sten is hemmed in too close to swing his monster of a sword without hitting someone he doesn't want to hit.

Morrigan vanishes, and in her place is a spider large enough to terrify anyone who hadn't just spent weeks in the Deep Roads. Several of the bandits scream, and two drop their swords as they run away, and that's all the time Daylen needs to send lightning arcing from his fingertips. More screams fill the air, and he grins savagely. Fire gathers in his palm as he picks his target-

In front of him, an arrow finds a gap in Alistair's armor and punches through his left shoulder, sending him staggering back. Before he can get his footing, two bandits rush him, knocking him backward, off the road and into thin air.

Daylen doesn't remember most of what happens after that. There's a lot of fire, and someone screaming obscenities in a voice that sounds a little like his, and then Zevran is shaking him by both shoulders so hard his teeth rattle.

"Stop!" Zevran shouts, as if trying to be heard across a vast distance. "Put it out before you kill us!"

Daylen blinks, first at Zevran and then at the flames leaping higher than his head all around them. He crushes the fire with a thought and wrenches himself free to run to the spot where Alistair disappeared.

Or rather, he tries to, but as soon as he takes a step, one leg gives out. It isn't until he touches his thigh that he remembers the arrow that hit him when the bandits first attacked. If it hurts, he can't feel it, so he snaps off the arrow shaft just where it disappears into his leg and limps the rest of the way to the side of the road.

Sten and Leliana are already there, leaning out over the edge to call down to someone else. Even as Daylen reaches them, Oghren yells back, "I've got him, he's fine!"

When they finally pick their way down to where Alistair is lying, that turns out to have been something of an overstatement. The switchback nature of the road means he didn't fall as far as he might have, and his armor absorbed the brunt of the assault from rocks and trees, but he's far from fine. He's unconscious, and his fall wrenched around the arrow in his shoulder, doing even more damage to muscle and tendon before the shaft snapped off.

At least he regains consciousness quickly, though his words are slurred and his eyes unfocused. There are injuries elfroot can't fix, and blows to the head hard enough to knock someone out for more than a short time often fall into that category. Without a better healer than Daylen or Morrigan, there wouldn't be anything they could do to save him.

It isn't until Alistair looks at him and says his name that Daylen actually feels the pain in his own leg. The abused muscle takes its revenge by dropping him on his ass with a wave of agony, and he spends an eternity bent over in the snow, teeth clenched against a scream. He's been hurt worse, but not often, and not recently.

The arrowhead needs to come out, no matter how unsteady his grip, but when he reaches for his knife, someone blocks him.

"No," Zevran says. "Show me."

Daylen has to use both hands to straighten the leg, his breath hissing in and out between his teeth as white lights burst across his vision. At least Zevran's knife is sharp enough it doesn't add to the pain, and as soon as the arrowhead is free, Daylen rams magic into the wound. It's the kind of healing spell that got him banned from Kinloch Hold's infirmary, all power and no finesse, but it stops the bleeding, and he only blacks out from the pain for a moment or two.

Nausea is clawing up the back of his throat when he regains consciousness, and his limbs feel weak and disconnected. He tries to get up anyway, only to find Zevran in the way again, this time with a hand on each shoulder to pin him to the ground.

It's not a grip Daylen would care for at the best of times, and he nearly tosses Zevran across the road in a blast of magic. By the expression on Zevran's face, he knows exactly how close he just came to a head injury of his own, but he doesn't let go.

"Stop," Zevran says, in a voice of command Daylen has never heard from him before. "If you fall and injure yourself, you do him no good."

"Can't stay here," Daylen grits out between clenched teeth.

"You can," Zevran says. "You can grant yourself a moment, so you can do more for him after."

"Already took a moment."

Zevran gives him a withering look that says time spent unconscious isn't the same as resting. "Count to five hundred, and then you may do as you wish."

Daylen could do as he wishes now, but he knows Zevran is right. "Fine," he says. "Now let go of me."

The last part comes out more plaintive than angry, and Zevran's mouth tightens in sympathy as he leans away. He doesn't apologize, though, and from anyone else, that would make Daylen angry. From Zevran, he lets it pass, because even in his current state, Daylen knows it wasn't thoughtless or callous: Zevran likely knew exactly how much Daylen would hate being pinned down, and if he did it anyway, it was because he felt he had no other option.

If their positions had been reversed, Daylen probably wouldn't apologize, either.

Zevran is eyeing him, as if waiting to see if Daylen will go back on their agreement, so Daylen begins to count aloud, pointedly. Aloud, but not slowly. He counts so fast the words blur together, and he's only on four hundred and eighty-seven when he starts to gather himself to rise. He's halfway to his feet by the time the last syllable of "five hundred" is out of his mouth.

Zevran says nothing, and Daylen suspects him of doubling whatever number he would otherwise have given, knowing what Daylen would do.

In the time he's been flat on his back, the others made a litter and carried Alistair down the road to one of the wider areas designated for camping. With the Blight and the political upheaval in both Ferelden and Orzammar, they have this campsite all to themselves. Sten already has one tent almost completely up, and by the time Daylen limps his way down the road to the them--Zevran a casual-seeming two paces behind--Morrigan and Oghren are moving Alistair into shelter.

Between them, Daylen and Morrigan get Alistair out of his armor and set to work on his shoulder. Removing the arrow is easy; repairing the damage it left behind is not. It's the kind of delicate work neither of them is especially good at, and simply applying elfroot won't do any good if the bones aren't in the right place. The two of them are both angry and frustrated and afraid, and they fight with each other more often than Daylen would like when Alistair is bleeding between them, but eventually they manage something they can grudgingly agree is acceptable.

When they've pieced Alistair's shoulder back together as best they can and reached the limit of their combined knowledge on healing head injuries, they strip off the rest of his clothes and tuck him into the blankets. With the last of his energy, Daylen warms the air in the tent to spare Alistair the chill, then settles in to wait.

"He won't recover any faster for you watching him," Morrigan says. Tired as she is, the words lack their usual bite.

"I know," Daylen says, not taking his eyes off Alistair's face.

"He might recover faster if you slept, so you could help me with his healing tomorrow."

"I can sleep here." He waves his hand absently, indicating the second bedroll that's around somewhere. "Zevran and Sten can share."

Leaving Bodahn and his wagon behind meant severely limiting what gear they packed, and tents are heavy. Nobody was enthusiastic about having to share, but since no one was enthusiastic about accepting the extra weight of another tent, either, sharing is exactly what they've been doing. Daylen had better sense than to put himself in a tent with Alistair, so he'd ended up sharing with Zevran instead.

Now, though...Daylen has no intention of going anywhere until he knows Alistair will be all right.

"Or Zevran and Oghren," he adds. "I'm sure they'd love to share a tent."

"'Tis a pity you'll miss the excitement," Morrigan says sarcastically, but she gives up trying to persuade him to leave.

There's a brief wash of cold air as she slips out of the tent, then Daylen's spell catches up and returns the tent to late-spring warmth. Outside, the others are finishing the rest of the work to set up camp--work Daylen should be helping with--but inside, there's just the sound of Alistair's labored breathing.

Daylen's magic has always been explosive, whether because of his temperament or some other reason known only to the Maker. When he crafts a spell, no matter how carefully, the power he pours into it is always a flood. That doesn't mix well with healing magic, and after a while, his teachers gave up trying to teach him how to channel his power into more delicate workings.

Now he digs through his memory for those long ago lessons, takes Alistair's unresponsive hand, and begins to feed the tiniest possible thread of magic into the spells currently holding his shoulder together. It's nothing like the small healing magics that have become second nature out on the road. A headache or a cut finger only needs power: given the energy to work with, the body knows how to heal itself. While the patient might prefer that power arrive in a controlled fashion, an abrupt push will accomplish its purpose so long as Daylen doesn't overdo it. He knows the difference between the amount of force needed to open a door versus the amount needed to tear it off its hinges, and if he occasionally bounces that door off the wall behind it, he doesn't break anything in the process.

But this? This is a glassblower's masterwork, attempted by a pair of ham-handed apprentice blacksmiths. Forcing as much power as possible into Alistair will result in nothing except a mess they'll have to undo later, when pieces of bone fuse to things they shouldn't and tendons grow back too short or too long.

Daylen digs out a vial of lyrium to give himself the power to work with, then he abandons efficiency, letting power overflow the path he lays for it rather than overwhelm the spell. A little of it can be siphoned off to feed the spell keeping the tent warm, but most of it is wasted. Daylen doesn't care. If he loses a bucket for each spoonful that finds its way into the spell, so be it, because all the spell needs is that one spoonful. He's reasonably confident in the groundwork he and Morrigan laid, but good healing is as much timing as anything. This bone has to heal after that one, but finish before this tendon starts, and that's where Daylen's teachers gave up on him all those years ago.

They'd have no cause to complain about inattentiveness and impatience now.

Over the course of the afternoon and evening, the others try various tactics to move him from the tent. He ignores them all, though he does take food and water when they're offered. Sometime in the middle of the night, he forces himself to stop before he tweaks the spell so often it breaks apart, but he still can't bring himself to leave. Instead, he wraps himself in his cloak and lies down to yell at Alistair in silence.

_"Don't you dare fucking die."_

No tears burn inside him, just the kind of pure rage he's always used to fuel his magic but now has to keep far away from it.

_"Don't you dare leave me to figure this Grey Warden shit out by myself, and save the world by myself, and do every other fucking thing. By. My. Self."_

Bad enough Duncan left them to stumble through it without the guidance of someone who knew what they were doing. Daylen refuses to do it all without someone to fuck it up alongside him, at the very least.

_"It's one fucking arrow, and that's what's going to stop you?"_

This is why it's dangerous to care. The templars might have less power over him now, but they've been replaced by a darkspawn horde, the entire Fereldan army, and every asshole from Denerim to the Frostbacks who's decided to make their living by attacking anyone who might have something worth stealing. Caring about anyone is no safer now than it was at Kinloch Hold, and he can't let himself forget that.

 _"You survived the Deep Roads!"_ he shouts at Alistair in his head. _"Remember that? Too fucking dark, too fucking hot, too fucking full of fucking darkspawn? Remember?"_

Though Alistair hasn't survived the Deep Roads, not really. No Grey Warden does, no matter how long they postpone the inevitable. Sooner or later, the Old Gods will start to whisper, the same as they've whispered to every Warden for centuries, and Alistair will go back down into the dark one last time. Daylen is going to lose him eventually. There's nothing he can do about that except spare himself the pain of losing someone he cares about.

That's the thought that follows him into sleep, and it wakes him a dozen times during the night. When he opens his eyes just before dawn, he thinks at first the nightmares are what woke him again. He shifts, trying unsuccessfully to ease the ache in his leg without letting go of Alistair's hand, and he's about to try to go back to sleep with the same enthusiasm as a veteran soldier running into battle, when he hears his name.

His gaze snaps to Alistair's face, and he summons a wisp of light without conscious thought. It says something about how far he's drained himself that the light is weak and flickering, but Daylen doesn't care, because Alistair is looking back at him. Confused, in pain, but aware.

Daylen barely restrains the impulse to hug him, and he only manages it because his fear of doing new damage to Alistair's shoulder is stronger than the need to touch him.

"What...?" Alistair asks in a raspy whisper. "What happened?"

For a moment, too many answers spin around in Daylen's head, centered on the shockingly vivid memory of Alistair disappearing over the side of the road. It brings back all his anger, fed by relief and fear that isn't quite ready to let go.

 _"You almost died!"_ he wants to shout. _"You almost got yourself killed!"_

And hard on the heels of that thought is another: _"Don't you dare leave me!"_

Anger has always been Daylen's shield against fear and grief, and he's too exhausted to stop it now. The best he can do is press his lips together and turn toward the tent flap. He needs to get out of here before he says or does something he can't take back later, whether that's screaming at Alistair or kissing him.

Behind him, Alistair whispers his name and tries to get up. Without turning, Daylen stabs a finger in his direction and hisses _"sleep,"_ fueling the spell with magic dredged up by dint of rage alone.

He feels the spell take hold and doesn't wait for more, just scrambles out of the tent to stand gasping for breath in the cold morning air.

"Daylen?"

For a confused moment, he thinks it's Alistair calling him, but logic reasserts itself, and he looks up. From her place by the fire, Leliana is staring at him in alarm.

"It's fine," he tells her, his voice almost as hoarse as Alistair's. "He's awake. Or he was. I put him back to sleep. He needs to sleep."

Daylen clenches his jaw to stop his own babbling. For her part, Leliana now looks more confused than alarmed, and when she speaks, her words are slow and hesitant. "Isn't it good that he's awake? Did he know you?"

"Yes," Daylen grits out.

Leliana's confusion deepens, but she doesn't say anything, and Daylen doesn't elaborate as he limps past her to the edge of camp. Rocks are piled waist-high along the drop-off here, and Daylen scowls at them. He knows it's ridiculous to blame whatever long-dead engineer designed this road, but if this wall had been a mile or so back, Alistair would never have fallen. That there aren't enough rocks to build a wall along the entire length of the road, and that it makes the most sense to use that limited resource at campsites, where people might be wandering around in the dark, are both beside the point.

It all catches up to him at once, and dizziness hits Daylen between the eyes. He grabs for the wall in front of him, reluctantly grateful the rocks are there to catch him even if they didn't do the same for Alistair yesterday. His whole body shakes with reaction, and for a long time, all he can do is cling to the wall and breathe.

Zevran is standing beside him, just out of arm's reach, the next time Daylen is in a fit state to notice anything. "All right?" Zevran asks when he sees Daylen looking back at him.

"No," Daylen says, but he finds a weak smile from somewhere and tries it on. It doesn't ft very well.

"And your leg?"

"It's been better." Now that Daylen has been reminded of it, pain is running down the whole left side of his body, but he's not going to admit that.

"You mean to say it might not be perfectly healed? Truly, I am astonished." The sarcasm in Zevran's tone is surprisingly mild, all things considered. "And you will, of course, allow Morrigan to look it over this morning."

"Tomorrow's probably better," Daylen temporizes, hoping to avoid arguing about it right now. "Besides, she'll probably tell me it just needs time."

"I hesitate to question you, oh wise leader," Zevran says, "especially when you gave such care to tending the injury yesterday, but there is the possibility that Morrigan might say differently."

All right, maybe the sarcasm isn't so mild. Daylen grimaces: at the pain in his leg, at Zevran's sarcasm, at the memory of his own stupidity. There's plenty of that last to go around, too.

"Is she awake yet?"

"Oh yes," Zevran says grimly, and Daylen turns fully toward him in surprise. "Last I saw her, she was cursing your name and threatening Alistair with a number of unpleasant fates if he undid all her hard work."

Fuck. "He's supposed to be asleep."

"And yet he is not."

Fuck fuck _fuck_. "Did he...?"

"Try to follow you? Of course. Hurt himself again? I believe not." Zevran props his hip against the stone wall and pretends to study the sunrise. "Quite the morning for him, is it not? The first thing he sees on waking is you, so angry you walk away rather than speak to him."

Daylen's temper flares, but he smothers it. Zevran is right, fuck him anyway, and Daylen should never have left Alistair alone. Too many people have done that already.

Exhaustion has sapped nearly all of Daylen's strength, but he pushes himself off the wall with a long sigh. "You're right," he says quietly. "About all of it. I'm sorry."

"You owe me no apology."

"I do, actually," Daylen says with a wry smile. "I owe Alistair one, too, but I'm sorry you had to be the stalking goat for my temper again."

Zevran's lips twitch. "I do so enjoy the excitement."

"I tried to give you something else to be excited about, but you said no," Daylen says and is rewarded with a smirk.

His amusement lasts about three steps, and by the time he's standing at Alistair's tent, all he feels is dread and sullen anger. After a lifetime of forced apologies, nearly always made to templars who had hurt him, saying the words feels like losing a fight. Here he is again, forced to apologize to a templar-

That thought is so ridiculously unfair it pulls him up short, and once his thoughts have broken free of their rut, he can take a deep breath and crawl into the tent.

Alistair is indeed awake, watching the tent flap with an anxious frown. When he sees Daylen, the parade of emotions across his face is painful: confusion, then relief, then a touch of anger of his own, followed immediately by guilt, before he looks away. He can't turn his head very far, but he does the best he can, leaving Daylen with only a sliver of his profile.

Daylen eyes the inside of the tent with disfavor. It's too small to let him keep his distance without making it obvious that's what he's doing, but his skin itches at the thought of being in contact with anyone right now.

That reluctance is nothing more than the last vestiges of his anger, though, and his temper has already gotten him in enough trouble for one day. Possibly for one lifetime, but he's too worn down for that level of self-reflection right now.

He crawls forward and takes Alistair's good hand. A dozen explanations and excuses fly through his head, but he ignores them all in favor of a simple, "I'm sorry."

Some emotion passes over Alistair's face, but Daylen can't read it from here. It doesn't help that Alistair says nothing, which gives Daylen no hint as to what he's thinking.

Alistair says nothing for so long that Daylen eventually breaks the silence himself, unable to bear it. "I'm sorry," he says again, as if Alistair might not have heard him before, "I should have stayed to be sure you were all right, not stormed out like that."

That's the least of his sins, really, and he can't leave it there, no matter how much he wants to. Apologizing for rudeness is one thing, but acknowledging his real mistake is a hundred times harder.

"I know that I..." He hesitates, knowing exactly the right word but strangely afraid to say it. "I know I hurt you, when I should have been taking care of you."

He meant to stop there--he should stop there--but his mouth keeps going. "It's just, you scared me when you fell, and then you hit your head, and all I could think about was all the times I've seen people die from a blow to the head even in the Circle, surrounded by mages, and you're stuck out here with just me and Morrigan, and we're both shit at healing-"

He's babbling, and worse, he's blaming Alistair, as if he fell on purpose. Maker save them both, Daylen is even worse at apologies than he is at healing.

"Fuck," he says aloud. "Forget I said any of that, my temper isn't your fault." He rubs his free hand over his face, more exhausted than he's ever been in his life. "I was scared," he says quietly. "And that's not an excuse, I know it's not. I just want you to know it. I was so scared. I need you..."

His heart thuds nauseatingly. Too much, too private, that's nothing he should ever admit, so he grabs the first thing he can think to add, as if he'd always intended to continue the sentence. "...to not do that again." He tries to make it a joke, but he's not sure how well he succeeds.

For the first time, Alistair returns Daylen's grip rather than letting his hand rest passively, but his face is still turned away and he still doesn't speak.

After a while, Daylen asks tentatively, "Do you want me to let you get some sleep?"

"No."

The word is unexpectedly sharp, and Daylen straightens in surprise. He opens his mouth to ask Maker-knows-what, but Alistair talks over him.

"I don't need more sleep."

Now, finally, he turns his head toward Daylen, and at his expression, Daylen closes his mouth with a snap. The anger is understandable, if somewhat unusual for Alistair, but fear? Had he thought Daylen would leave the tent and just keep walking? No matter how upset he was, Daylen would never do that.

 _Because of course everyone always comes back to him, don't they?_ says the sarcastic voice in the back of his head. _No one's ever abandoned him, so why should he worry about a silly thing like that? If he's hurt, then he's not useful, but why should that be a problem?_

Daylen squares his shoulders against the urge to hunch forward and meets Alistair's gaze steadily. Whatever angry words Alistair has for him, Daylen will accept them as his just punishment.

"Don't do that to me again," Alistair says. "Don't try to put me to sleep because you think you know what's good for me. I'm not stupid, or a child, and if I'm not dying, I get to say whether you magic me."

Daylen's mouth is hanging open again, very slightly. _That's_ what Alistair is upset about? A hasty sleeping spell that wasn't even strong enough to work properly? Of all the magic at Daylen's command, Alistair is worried about what might be the most innocuous? If Daylen hadn't made such a show of it in his anger, Alistair might not have known there'd been a spell at all.

Alistair flushes in embarrassment and turns his face away again. "Just...don't do that, all right? Stay out of my head."

The pieces fall together, along with Daylen's stomach. He remembers a hundred times he did something he didn't want to do, because it was a templar who gave the order. They often didn't even have to threaten: the threat was made clear by their armor and their position and their power. They did as they pleased, with no thought for anyone except themselves.

In the normal course of things, Alistair can defend himself in ways Daylen couldn't, but now...now he's weak, and in pain, and probably as tired as Daylen. He has no defenses, no way to protect himself or fight back, and Daylen took advantage of that. Unintentionally, perhaps, and at a moment when he was too overwhelmed to think, but that doesn't matter.

And then he capped it all off by walking away.

"I'm so sorry," Daylen says now, wrapping both hands around Alistair's to bring it to his mouth. He kisses the back the way a knight might kiss their liege's, a gesture more subservient than anything he would normally do, but he doesn't know how else to express the feelings constricting his chest. "I didn't think, and I should have. I should have known better."

"It's fine!" Alistair says in alarm and tries to roll toward Daylen. He hisses in pain as the movement pulls at his shoulder, but he doesn't stop until Daylen puts a hand on his chest and pushes him back down.

"If you make a mess of your shoulder, Morrigan will kill me," Daylen says, forcing a weak smile. Jokes are the best he can do right now. He's shaking inside and out, and he can't find the words to express any of it.

Alistair subsides, though Daylen doesn't know if that's because of the words or the pain.

"And it's not fine," Daylen says. "It was wrong, and I shouldn't have done it."

"I...all right, yes, but...no!" Alistair growls in frustration and tries again. "I didn't like it, but it wasn't that bad. You don't need to be so...so..."

"I shouldn't have done it," Daylen says when Alistair's flailing doesn't resolve itself into words, "but I'll try not to be so 'so' about it."

Alistair snorts, then winces at the pain. "Don't make me laugh."

"You're a very demanding patient," Daylen says.

"Yeah, because you're so much better," Alistair mutters.

Daylen's leg twinges to remind him of exactly how terrible a patient he is, and he changes the subject hastily. "Let me get Morrigan so we can look at your shoulder." Honesty compels him to add, "I won't do anything you don't want, but you might want to let us put you to sleep. We're not very good at this."

"I'll think about it," Alistair says. The words are diplomatic, but his tone is a flat refusal.

Daylen lets it go. He has a harder time letting go of Alistair's hand, partly because Alistair won't let go of his. "I need Morrigan for this," he says apologetically. "We're both bad, but together we're almost adequate."

Alistair hums acknowledgement without loosening his grip.

"Alistair," Daylen says, and waits for Alistair to look at him before going on. "I promise, I'll come back."

For all they were supposed to be teasing, the words hang in the air between them, weighted with all the things Daylen meant but hadn't meant to let Alistair hear.

He tries again to make a joke of it and defuse the tension. "I swear on Barkspawn."

That gets him a crooked half smile, and at last Alistair releases him. As Daylen crawls toward the tent flap, he tries to ignore how cold his own hand suddenly feels, but he can't. Instead, he finds himself pausing, just on the verge of leaving the tent.

Without turning around, he says, "I wish I could promise I'll always come back, but I can't. There's too many things I can't control." He wishes that wasn't so, for both their sakes. "But...but I promise, if I _can_ come back, I will. I won't ever just walk away and leave you."

He doesn't wait for an answer before pushing open the tent with shaking hands to escape into the morning sunlight, and when he returns with Morrigan, neither he nor Alistair mentions their conversation. It's an easy enough subject to avoid now that Alistair is awake to contribute to the bickering and snapping, and by the time the spells on his shoulder have been reinforced and repaired, Daylen feels like they're back on steadier ground.

When Daylen staggers to the fire afterward, Zevran tries to steer him toward a tent and sleep, but Daylen can't imagine ever sleeping again. He dodges Zevran's attempts and uses magic to clear the exhaustion from his body instead, taking lyrium when he can't pull enough power to finish the spell. Daylen's pack nearly rattles from the number of vials of lyrium he bought in Orzammar, and if ever there was a time when he needed it, that time is now. They're already down one pair of hands; they can't afford to be down another. Magic can replace sleep for a long time if he's careful, far longer than the two or three days until Alistair is back on his feet.

It doesn't even take two full days. By breakfast the next morning, Alistair is up and moving around, able to help with the lighter camp chores so long as he's careful. Daylen volunteers to take over the majority of the work on his shoulder, and since it keeps Morrigan and Alistair out of each other's way when they're both tired and anxious, no one complains that he's getting the easiest job.

Because it is easy, or it should be. The healing itself is simple at this point, though it would be simpler if Daylen was even a mediocre healer. All he has to do is feed power into the spell, and monitor it to be sure everything is healing at the correct pace. Powering the spell is easy when he has a ready supply of lyrium. Monitoring the healing, on the other hand, is easy in some ways and maddening in others.

Daylen learns this the first time he has to tweak the spell. It's something he and Morrigan have been doing for a few days now, but putting his hands all over Alistair's naked chest and back is very different when Alistair is awake and alert. Before, Daylen's fear distracted him from anything except the work to be done. Now, he has no distractions and no one else around to see.

They're in Alistair's tent so he doesn't have to sit shirtless in the cold. Daylen hadn't given that any thought until the tent flap fell closed behind him, and he saw Alistair, naked to the waist and kneeling on the ground. He's settled back on his heels, which puts him more than a head shorter than Daylen, who's kneeling but hasn't yet sat back. The inside of the tent is dim, and Alistair's eyes are dark as he looks up at Daylen.

 _"You look good on your knees,"_ Daylen imagines telling him. Because he does, and in so many ways.

"Turn your shoulder toward me," is what he actually says. His voice even sounds relatively normal.

Alistair looks like he wants to say something, but after a moment, he does as Daylen asked, turning sideways so his shoulder is in easy reach.

His skin is warm under Daylen's hands, and Daylen tries to focus on the spell. If he damages it, he'll deserve every cutting remark Morrigan will make. This is the first truly complex injury they've had to heal, and while he knows that makes them lucky, he almost wishes he'd had someone else to practice on first. The spell they've cobbled together is ugly enough to make Daylen and Morrigan both wince, but Alistair's shoulder won't be when it's finished, which is all that matters. Always assuming Daylen doesn't fuck it up now by allowing himself to be distracted by the little voice in the back of his head suggesting he touch more than just Alistair's shoulder.

 _He's not a mage,_ that voice whispers. _He won't know the difference._

Daylen is glad he's halfway behind Alistair, his face hidden, because he can't control the sneer of disgust that curls his lip. _And that's exactly why we're **not** doing it._ Just knowing that he thought about it makes him feel unclean.

Even if Alistair _could_ tell the difference and so could choose whether to accept it, Daylen refuses to touch more than what's necessary for the healing. He might touch Alistair or lean into him over the normal course of a day, but Alistair is free to pull away. While technically he can pull away even when Daylen is healing him, he would have to weigh physical pain against mental and decide which is worse. The last thing Daylen wants is for his touch to be tolerated as the best of bad options, even if it means he'll never get to touch more of Alistair than this.

The instant Daylen has checked the spell and reinforced its weak points, he lets go of Alistair's shoulder and shuffles backward on his knees. Getting out of the tent as soon as possible seems like a very good idea, at least to the part of him not thinking with his cock.

It doesn't work quite the way he planned. His leg, still unhappy with him after the abuse it's taken in the last few days, chooses that moment to make its displeasure known, the muscles in his thigh cramping.

He sits down hard and wraps both hands around the aching muscle, forcing himself to use only enough magic to make it relax. All this need for careful magic has gone from annoying to infuriating. Delicate workings have never been his forte, and he's more than ready to go back to blowing things up.

To Alistair's alarmed look, Daylen says through gritted teeth, "I'm fine. Just a cramp, it'll pass."

Alistair doesn't look reassured, and he insists Daylen sit beside him to rest when they're back outside. Worse, he catches Morrigan's attention the next time she's passes by, then joins her in harassing Daylen about his leg, and what happened, and what he did about it. Thank the Maker the two of them agree so rarely, because together, they're unstoppable. If Daylen could find a way to get them pointed in the right direction, they could probably argue the darkspawn army back down into the Deep Roads and badger Loghain into surrendering.

Finally, Daylen throws up his hands and says to Morrigan, "Fine, all right, you can look at it!"

He already knows what she'll say: his brute-force application of magic to the wound means it healed poorly. Fixing it requires Zevran's help, since none of them are prepared to trust Alistair's still-shaky grip with a knife, and the whole process is as painful and messy as Daylen knew it would be. When that gruesome task is done, he gets the dubious honor of joining Alistair on the list of invalids not allowed to lift anything heavier than a ladle for at least the next day.

They've been sitting side-by-side for a while, Daylen absently rubbing his thigh and thinking about nothing in particular, when Alistair says abruptly, "I'll try not to fall off any more cliffs if you promise not to do that again."

His flippant tone is unconvincing, and his head tilt at Daylen's leg is jerky.

Daylen pretends not to notice and smiles, holding out his hand for Alistair to shake. "It's a deal."


	8. What You Mean When You Say Fragile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Tatteredleaf, because who knows when y'all would have gotten this chapter if she hadn't asked about it. Has it really been a week already??? I'm skeptical, but the calendar says it has been.
> 
> Also, I had some hard cider while I was editing, and apparently I'm a lightweight tonight. I edited the last half of this with one eye shut (not kidding), because it was the only way I could read the letters on the screen. So, uh, I hope there aren't any horrible errors. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

A few days later, they're back on their way, and by the end of the week, they reach the village where they left Bodahn, Sandal, and Barkspawn. Whatever greeting Bodahn offers at their arrival, it's drowned out by Barkspawn, who lives up to her name until both Daylen and Alistair have petted her and told her what a good girl she is and petted her some more. She practically sits on Daylen's boots at supper, her neck stretched out to put her head on Alistair's knee at the same time.

For one of the few times since they've known each other, Daylen is the one who has to remind Alistair to eat. He's so busy scratching Barkspawn's head and murmuring endearments to her that his supper goes cold while Daylen fights to keep a straight face. No harm in giving Alistair a little time, though, not when he's missed Barkspawn as much as Daylen has. The days are getting longer, and they'll have light for a while yet.

But when Alistair has finally finished eating and had a little more time to tell Barkspawn how wonderful she is, Daylen gets to his feet and says, "Come on."

Spoon in his mouth to get the last traces of supper off it, Alistair looks up in confusion. Looking down at him, Daylen has a sudden, vivid image of Alistair sucking on something else, and he turns away before his body betrays him.

 _I see we're feeling better,_ he thinks at his cock. _Now stop._

To Alistair, he says over his shoulder, "We haven't practiced in a while, so I thought we could do a little bit tonight. Assuming you're up for it."

"Oh!" Alistair says as he scrambles to his feet. "Sure, of course!"

"Should I be worried that you're looking forward to this?" Daylen asks.

"Just trying to be helpful," Alistair says, smiling innocently back.

"I feel so honored."

Practice is no more fun than Daylen remembered, but the routine of it is welcome. The lingering horror and fear of the last weeks melts away at last, and for a while, Daylen feels like they've gone back in time, to before Orzammar. It isn't until they're winding down for the evening, Daylen rubbing at the ache in his temples while Alistair keeps him company, that he realizes they haven't gone back in time, not really.

Two months ago, he might have leaned against Alistair, but the gesture would never have been thoughtless. Now, propping his shoulder against Alistair's is simple, and the closeness comfortable. He can still feel the hum of a templar's power--he'll probably never completely lose his awareness of it--but it's Alistair's power, and he hasn't been afraid of Alistair in a long time.

The road south to Haven gives them plenty of time to fall back into their old routine, and Daylen begins to see that they're making real progress. He knows when a smite is coming now, can feel the building pressure and the way it sucks at his magic just before Alistair releases it. How helpful that will be in a real fight is hard to say, but at least the warning lets him brace for it. Each smite is still nauseating and disorienting, but he's learning to ignore the sensation, to push past it as something that's annoying rather than dangerous. The nausea no longer takes up his whole attention; there's room left over for him to think and plan, even if he has no magic to put any plan into action.

"Sparring is like that," Alistair says, when Daylen tells him about it one evening.

Their practice is done for the day, but the summer air is so hot and sticky, neither of them wants to make the admittedly short walk back to the fire. Instead, they're lying in the grass watching the sky darken, not touching but close enough to talk quietly.

That Alistair is lying on his back, shirtless, within arm's reach, is very distracting whenever Daylen is reminded. Like now, as Alistair shifts to settle himself more comfortably, grass rustling as he moves.

"Sparring?" Daylen asks, only half listening to the words. All he really wants is to hear Alistair's voice.

"More like training in general, I suppose," Alistair says. He chuckles, and Daylen is glad they're not touching, because if they were, Alistair would be able to feel the shiver that goes through him at the sound. "The first time you step into the ring and the training master bruises your ass, you think the world's going to end."

Thinking about Alistair's ass does nothing to help Daylen focus. He makes an "I'm listening" noise and hopes that covers him.

"The pain just goes all the way through you," Alistair says, voice dreamy with reminiscence. "Makes your _teeth_ hurt."

"How exciting," Daylen says dryly. "I have to tell you, as much as I hate this, it doesn't make my teeth hurt, and I'm grateful for that."

"I am making a point," Alistair says pompously. Then the grin comes back, clear in his voice. "The first time, it hurts so much you can't breathe, can't think, can't imagine walking right ever again. I mean, that part doesn't last long, but there's this moment, right after the blow lands, when you think you're going to be the first person in history to die from a practice sword across the ass."

Daylen snorts out a laugh. "I'm guessing you weren't."

"How did you know?" Alistair asks, mock innocent. "But that's the thing, right? The first time, you think you're going to die. The second time, you think you're going to die but you remember that last time, you didn't. The third time, you know it didn't kill you the first two times. And every time, that moment where you think you're going to die is a little shorter, until it's not there at all. It never hurts less, not really. It's just...less important."

"Yes," Daylen says, finally distracted from his inappropriate thoughts about Alistair's ass. "Yes, that's it."

"I used to think the training master just liked hurting us," Alistair says. "Then the first time I was in a real fight, it made sense. Well, not _during_ the fight, I was busy then."

Daylen smiles but says nothing.

"It was supposed to be a training exercise." His voice has faded a little, and it's clear he's no longer entirely in the present. "They did it every spring, sent off all the older recruits in pairs to camp in the woods near Bournshire."

Bournshire Monastery. Where they train templars, many of whom go to Kinloch Hold after they take their vows. Daylen stops smiling, but he doesn't interrupt.

"We were supposed to survive for a week on what was in our packs and what we could hunt. Camping rough, the way we might have to if we were out on our own."

The way they might have to if they were out on their own hunting an apostate. Alistair has either never made the connection or is too lost in the rest of his story to remember it. Daylen's skin is cold and hot at the same time, but he still doesn't speak.

"The first year I was old enough, it went fine, but the second year..." Alistair snorts. "I mean, we were doing all right for the first few days, but it started to rain on the third day, and it just wouldn't stop."

Daylen has suffered through a few storms like that over the last months, the others suffering right along with him. In what he hopes is an amused tone, he asks, "Rain and mud in places you didn't think rain and mud could get?"

"Oh, worse," Alistair says cheerfully. "We thought we'd found a good place to wait it out, but the second afternoon we were there, the ground started to wash out from under us. We decided to break camp and look for somewhere better, so there we were, stumbling around in the rain, in a part of the forest neither of us knew that well, trying to find _somewhere_ even a little bit less wet before the sun went down. Maker, we were a mess, and we did all the stupid things we'd been taught not to do."

He chuckles at the memory, but Daylen doesn't join in and doesn't try to interrupt. If he asks Alistair to stop, he'll either hurt Alistair's feelings or have to explain why he doesn't want to hear about this. Or he can grit his teeth and get through it without hurting Alistair or earning his pity. It's not that difficult. He's been through much, much worse than listening to someone tell a story about something that didn't happen to him. So what if it's thrown him, completely unprepared, back into memories of all the templars he knew who might have been on those training exercises with Alistair.

"We got ourselves completely lost," Alistair says, "and we ended up wandering farther from the monastery than we were supposed to. Which put us outside the area that saw regular patrols from the bann's soldiers."

Even caught in his own memories, Daylen can see where this is going, and he winces.

"Not that we knew it at the time. We just knew it was getting dark, and about the time we thought we'd have to sleep under the thickest bush we could find and hope we didn't rust in place over night, we saw a fire. Praise the Maker, right?" Alistair makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "I guess the rain washed out our brains along with our camp."

Daylen's heart is thudding heavily in his chest, partly his own memories and partly Alistair's story. Which is ridiculous: he and Alistair both clearly survived their respective histories, and there's no reason his body should be tensing for a fight now.

"It was a bandit camp, of course," Alistair goes on. "I think the only thing that saved us was that they were as surprised as us. That, and the rain, so they couldn't shoot us. All right, _and_ all those years of training."

He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is less introspective, more embarrassed. "Which was where I was going with this story, wasn't it? Maker save me, why did you let me babble?"

Daylen ignores the question. "What happened?"

"We had a huge fight," Alistair says. "Six of them against two of us, but the two of us knew how to fight together, and we had better armor. Also our training, and them not being able to shoot us, and the surprise thing. It was still a hard fight, and my first real one."

When he doesn't go on, Daylen demands again, "What. Happened."

"I was stupid," Alistair says, "and I let my shield get out of position. One of them had a spear and took advantage of the gap. Lucky for me, they got me in the leg rather than the throat or the face. Andraste's ass, did it ever hurt, but I remember..." His voice slows and fades again. "It hurt, but it didn't matter. Pain wasn't a reason to stop fighting."

There's a pause long enough for Daylen to imagine it, Alistair with a bandit's spear in his leg. After that arrow on the road from Orzammar, he has too good an idea of what it would feel like.

Alistair's voice strengthens again. "So I didn't stop, and we won, and with the help of some elfroot, I survived to tell you this really long and mostly pointless story."

It's too much for Daylen: his memories and the thought of Alistair fighting in the rain, bleeding and hurting and desperate. Maybe some other day, he would have been able to deal with it, but not today, not so soon after watching Alistair nearly die.

"I'm going back to the fire," Daylen says harshly.

Ignoring Alistair's startled "what?" Daylen rolls to his knees, only to stop short a few inches shy of planting his face in Barkspawn's ribs. For such a large dog, she can be surprisingly quiet, and he never heard her approach, though that might have more to do with him than her right now.

She whines inquisitively, and when Daylen sits back on his heels, he can see the worried expression on her face.

"Hey, girl," he whispers, reaching up to scratch gently between her ears. She whines again, and he smiles weakly. Maybe she just heard them talking and came to see if she could persuade one of them to throw a stick for her, but Daylen likes to imagine she knew he needed her.

"Daylen?" Alistair says behind him. He sounds confused. "Daylen, what happened?"

"Nothing happened," Daylen says. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can pretend he's telling the truth.

His desperate gaze falls on a large stick nearby, and he snatches it up, suddenly inspired. "Look what I have!" he says to Barkspawn.

She drops immediately into a crouch, chest nearly touching the ground and hindquarters in the air, tiny stub of a tail wagging furiously. Daylen tosses the stick as hard as he can, adding a touch of magic to send it further, and she bounds after it, spraying him with dirt as her paws dig into the ground.

Wiping the dirt off his face gives him an excuse to hide his expression from Alistair, who's crouched beside him looking worried. It also gives him an extra moment to come up with an excuse and a smile, so that when he meets Alistair's gaze, he looks almost normal.

"I didn't bring enough elfroot," he lies. "I just want to get back to camp so I can get some more for this headache."

Alistair looks unconvinced, but he doesn't argue, and they walk back to camp in a reasonable approximation of their usual companionable silence. Daylen likes to think he keeps his inner turmoil hidden--though Zevran shoots him an odd look once or twice--and he's able to retreat to his tent without looking like he's running away.

To his complete lack of surprise, he sleeps badly that night, his dreams full of templars. The memories stirred up by Alistair's story and the story itself combine for some truly impressive nightmares, and Daylen stumbles out of his tent in the morning with anger already simmering just below the surface. At the fire, he grunts a reply to Alistair's cheerful greeting and goes to sit a little away from the others with his breakfast. He doesn't want to yell at anyone, and the best way to avoid that is to limit his opportunities to do so.

Alistair, alas, is oblivious, and Daylen can't in fairness blame him. They've sat together for almost every meal, so of course Alistair brings his own breakfast to where Daylen is sitting. Worse, he gives Daylen's shoulder a friendly shove as he sits. It's the kind of touch Daylen normally doesn't mind, but today, the last thing he needs is anyone shoving him for anything.

He grabs Alistair's wrist without thinking, then doesn't know what to do with it. Alistair is staring at him in consternation, and Daylen's mind is blank of any plausible lies.

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks.

One slow, deep breath to gather himself, then he says as gently as he can, "I need you to not do that today." He moves Alistair's hand away from himself and sets it gently on the ground between them.

To the hurt shock in Alistair's eyes, he adds, "It's nothing to do with you, and you haven't done anything wrong. I promise." He doesn't want to be coddled or pitied, but he hates the thought of causing Alistair pain. "I just need a little room today, that's all."

"Oh," Alistair says. He's looking down at his hand on the ground, fingers flexing in the dirt, and his lips form what might be the beginning of an apology. Daylen tenses, but what Alistair finally says is simply, "All right."

It isn't until he starts to get up that Daylen realizes something else. Before Alistair is more than halfway to his feet, Daylen adds, "You don't have to leave. If you don't want."

Alistair pauses on one knee and looks at him. There's still a shadow of hurt in his face, but mostly his expression is cautious. "What do _you_ want?"

A fair question. In the grand scheme of things, Daylen has no idea. For this morning... "I want you to stay," he admits, "but I know I'll be terrible company, and that's not fair to you. It won't upset me if you'd rather eat with someone who isn't in a bad mood."

The last part is a bit of a lie, but Daylen refuses to trap Alistair or anyone into spending time with him when he's like this. There's a good reason he's by himself this morning. That he wants to be by himself with Alistair doesn't give him the right to guilt Alistair into staying, even if it wasn't a contradiction to begin with.

"How much room?" Alistair asks.

Daylen gives that due consideration, then shifts several more inches away. It's not as far as he wants to be, but it's tolerable, and his skin stops prickling uncomfortably.

Alistair continues to look at him a while longer, thoughtful now. Then he sits back down, and as he does, he moves a few additional inches away from Daylen, putting even more space between them.

While Daylen is trying to decide if he's touched or annoyed by that, Barkspawn flings herself down between them with a happy yip, wriggling and knocking into both of them.

"Fool dog!" Daylen says, but he's laughing as he puts his hand between her tail and his breakfast. She gives him a tongue-lolling grin and settles herself more comfortably, as if she's his own personal furry bulwark.

"Keep your tail out of my food," he says as sternly as he can manage.

On the other side of Barkspawn, Alistair snickers, and Daylen feels a smile tug up one corner of his mouth. He's still not happy, but on days like today, less unhappy is a definite improvement.

###

The day's walk is uncomfortable, but it's only Daylen's mood that makes it so. The others give him space without shunning him, Barkspawn brings him a steady supply of sticks to throw, and Alistair is just...there. He's always right at the edge of the distance Daylen set this morning, but it never feels like he's trying to push the line or encroach on it. It reminds Daylen of the way he offers his hand after their practices: ready if Daylen needs it, with no weight of expectation behind it.

When they stop that evening, Daylen thinks about going straight to bed. He's tired, but he also wants to practice. As maddening as their slow progress can sometimes be, he wants whatever scant inches he can gain, and he doesn't want to lose a single day. The only question is whether Alistair will try to protect him from himself.

With that in mind, once camp is settled, he walks over to Alistair and says cheerfully, "Ready to practice?" Lacking a better strategy to keep Alistair from treating him like he's fragile, he's decided to pretend everything is normal and hope that's enough to make it so.

Alistair squints at him suspiciously. Maybe the cheerfulness was too much. Daylen isn't usually cheerful, even when he's happy.

So much for pretending everything is normal. He's managed to mess that up with his first sentence. Brilliant.

"All right," Alistair says, still looking like he's waiting for Daylen to fall apart.

"There's a good spot over there," Daylen says, trying for less cheerful without falling all the way to despondent.

Alistair nods and follows him away from camp, unnaturally silent. He stays that way through the first five rounds, but after the sixth, when Daylen croaks out a weary call for a break, he sits next to Daylen and offers the water, same as ever.

Daylen smiles his thanks and drinks. The silence between them is at least a little less uncomfortable now, and watching Alistair throw sticks for Barkspawn is a pleasant way to pass the time. That Alistair can throw the sticks farther while sitting than Daylen can throw them while standing is the kind of petty aggravation that's the perfect distraction from anything more serious.

Such as his unexpected desire to explain to Alistair what happened yesterday. What in the Maker's name is wrong with him? He should be grateful they've moved past it, not contemplating a return to it, but as the sun sets and darkness begins to settle around them, the impulse gets stronger and stronger.

When Barkspawn is finally worn out, she flops down in front of them, her tail tapping lazily against Alistair's knee as she pants for breath. Alistair is as happy and relaxed as she is, so of course that's the moment Daylen's mouth runs away with him and says, "Yesterday."

Alistair stiffens, his hand closing around a fistful of his trousers. "Yesterday?"

Having started this, Daylen's mouth now falls silent, and his brain is still running to catch up.

When Daylen doesn't speak, Alistair asks tentatively, "Something really was wrong, wasn't it? If I hurt you, I'm sorry." He laughs unconvincingly. "I mean, I know I made a short story long, but was it really _that_ bad?"

Daylen's lips twitch despite himself, and his brain finally pulls free of the mental mud. "It wasn't that bad, and anyway, you had a good point." Pain isn't a reason to stop fighting. For all he's never thought about it in those words, the sentiment is one of the foundations of Daylen's life. "And you didn't hurt me."

Alistair doesn't say anything else, and Daylen can't read his expression without turning and revealing his own. There could be anything there, with pity at the top of the list, and a lot of those potential expressions would do nothing except make Daylen angry. Since angry is what he's trying not to be right now, he chooses to picture Alistair the way he looked the first time they really talked. Intent, as if listening to Daylen required his entire body.

"A lot of the templars at Kinloch Hold were trained at Bournshire," Daylen says at last, as calmly as he can.

There's another pause, then Alistair says "oh" very quietly, followed after a long moment by an equally quiet, "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for _what_?" Daylen demands, his temper poised to flare. "All you did was mention a place where you spent half your life. How could you know it would..." He pauses, unsure how to finish that sentence. Affect me? Upset me? Remind me what people like you do to people like me?

"I knew where most of the templars from Bournshire went," Alistair says. "I just didn't think, and I'm sorry for that."

"Ah." That's an apology Daylen can accept, even if he thinks it's unnecessary. Because Bournshire Monastery is really only half of it, and Alistair deserves to know the rest.

With studied casualness, Daylen reaches out to pet Barkspawn, using both hands to tug lightly at her ears. "And I didn't like thinking about you being hurt."

"Me?" Alistair asks in surprise. "What, the bandits? That was years ago!"

It couldn't have been too long ago, not if Alistair was a senior recruit, but Daylen doesn't argue the point. "You were hurt," he says simply.

"I barely have a scar from it, and you're worried about _me_?" Alistair demands. "After how they treated you?"

Outrage on Daylen's behalf is at least better than pity, and there's an embarrassing part of him that's even pleased by it. Between the anger that's always ready to burn and the embarrassment he's trying to ignore, the inside of his own head is nowhere he wants to be right now. Instead, he watches Alistair's fist release its grip, his hand flattening the cloth it was so recently throttling, the movement too deliberate to be unconscious.

There's a blade of grass on the back of his hand, held in place by sweat and the sticky heat. Without letting himself think too hard about what he's doing, Daylen reaches out and brushes it off.

Alistair goes very still. Daylen isn't even sure if he's breathing.

Carefully, more carefully than he's ever done anything in his life, Daylen slots his fingers between Alistair's. One at a time, fitting each into place before starting with the next, until his fingers are squeezing Alistair's, his fingertips pressing into Alistair's palm.

Alistair's hand closes convulsively around his, then opens again just as fast.

"It's all right," Daylen says, to himself as much as to Alistair. He waits while Alistair's fingers curl around his, more slowly this time. His grip isn't gentle, but then, neither is Daylen's. "It's all right," he says again, and it is.

Alistair gives a small nod, barely more than a dip of his chin, and says softly, "I hate that I couldn't...can't protect you from that."

"It's all right." Because apparently that's the only thing he can think to say right now.

"It's _not_ ," Alistair says fiercely. "It's not, and I hate it, and I hate that somehow this has turned into you comforting me when it should be the other way around."

With his free hand, Daylen strokes one of Barkspawn's ears. "What makes you think you're not?"

"Because...!" Alistair takes a huge breath like he's getting ready to lay out a dozen arguments. Then he looks down at their hands, locked together on his knee, and he lets the breath back out just as fast. "Oh."

There's a long, motionless silence. When Alistair does move, it's slowly, reaching out with his own free hand to fit it around their joined hands. He doesn't cover Daylen's with his own, just cups his palm around their fingers so his thumb rests lightly across Daylen's knuckles.

Logically, it doesn't matter whether he puts his hand on top of Daylen's: the way their fingers are interlaced, Daylen won't be able to free himself if Alistair doesn't let him. He's already trapped. So logically, it doesn't matter.

To the less logical part of Daylen's mind, it matters a lot.

"I am sorry," Alistair says. "I never meant to remind you of...all that. I wouldn't have even started if I'd thought about it."

"You couldn't have known what would happen," Daylen says. "You couldn't have known it would hurt me, because I didn't know."

The memory of what he almost said earlier is bitter on his tongue. _"What people like you do to people like me."_ As if Alistair is anything like the templars Daylen feared and hated.

He takes a moment to offer up a silent apology to Alistair for the unfairness of the accusation he never made aloud, then goes on. "Sometimes it happens. Something reminds me of something else that reminds me of something else. And then I end up here." A reluctant smile curves his mouth. "Actually, this is a lot better place to end up than I usually do when that happens." He squeezes Alistair's hand again to make sure Alistair understands his meaning.

"Maker," Alistair mutters. "I know everyone thinks I'm so naïve I don't know anything, but just because I've never...never _done_ anything, that doesn't mean I'm stupid." He scowls down at his lap. "I've got eyes, I've got ears, and I can take what I see and hear and put it together to know what's happening when I can't see it or hear it."

Barkspawn whines sympathetically and turns her head to nose at his bare foot, the only thing she can reach without getting up.

Alistair yips and pulls his foot back, but now he's laughing instead of scowling. "That is a _really_ cold wet nose." He leans forward to stroke her muzzle, and Daylen is jealous of a dog for the first time in his life.

Still bent forward to pet Barkspawn, Alistair says, "I keep wanting to say I understand what happened at Kinloch Hold. What they..." He trails off and looks at Daylen without moving his head, watching Daylen's face warily as he continues. "I keep wanting to say I understand what they did to you, but I don't, because I wasn't there. No one's ever...done anything like that to me. That doesn't mean I can't figure it out, at least a little bit."

"I'm glad you weren't there," Daylen murmurs and wonders if Alistair hears all the things he means by that.

_"I'm glad you weren't there to be hurt."_

_"I'm glad you weren't there to look away while other people hurt me."_

_"I'm glad you weren't there to hurt me."_

He watches Alistair's hand move on Barkspawn's head: fingernails digging in to the places she likes to be scratched, thumb and forefinger gentle as he strokes the edge of an ear, palm broad as he cups her jaw to shake her head lightly from side to side. How would he touch Daylen, if Daylen dared to ask for such a thing? What would it feel like to have those fingers in his hair, combing gently through the too-long strands Daylen never remembers to cut?

Rather than try to find out and risk too many unpleasant results, Daylen says, "I think your definition of 'understand' is too narrow. From where I'm sitting, you seem to understand just fine."

"I wish I had been there," Alistair says, voice thick with the kind of anger Daylen has rarely seen in him. "I know you said you're glad I wasn't, but if I had been, I could have-"

"Died," Daylen says over top of whatever word Alistair was going to use. "You would have died. There was nothing you could have done, not alone."

Alistair makes a frustrated noise deep in his throat. Daylen knows it's aimed at the situation rather than at him or his words.

He can sympathize, but Alistair is still missing the important thing. "You're here now."

"I wish I could have done something to stop it," Alistair says miserably. "That would have been more useful."

Ah yes. Useful.

Daylen shakes his head. "This," he says, letting his palm rest briefly on Alistair's hand, pressing it down against Barkspawn's head, "this is useful."

"It doesn't feel useful," Alistair mutters, but he doesn't loosen the grip his other hand has on Daylen's fingers.

"Just because you're not hitting something with a sword doesn't mean you're not helping," Daylen says, teasing lightly.

"But I'm good at hitting things with swords." His eyes crinkle at the corners, even if his mouth doesn't smile.

"You are," Daylen agrees. "You're good at hitting things with swords, among many other fine talents. Of which this is one." And he presses down on Alistair's hand again.

"I'm just sitting around, not doing anything. Seems like I could have been more help there, hitting things with swords." The objection is more resigned than argumentative, but Daylen can't let it stand.

"You weren't there then," he says, "but you're here now. You're _here_." Daylen wants to touch his face, grab his shoulder, make him understand that this isn't about his physical presence. "You're here with me. We're here."

Something shifts in Alistair's expression, and he looks down, first at their hands on his knee and then at their hands on Barkspawn's head. "I am," he says on a sigh. "We are."

It's not enthusiastic agreement, but it is agreement, and they're both tired. Daylen will take it. Besides, he has one other thing he needs to say.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs to their joined hands.

Alistair jerks in surprise. "What? Why?"

"I should have stopped you," Daylen says. "Interrupted your story or hurried you along. I knew it was..." what word to use? "...affecting me, and I could have said something. I should have."

"It's not your fault," Alistair begins, but he cuts himself off at Daylen's headshake.

"I'm not blaming myself for what happened at Kinloch Hold, not by a long shot. What the templars chose to do is their responsibility, not mine. And not yours, either," he adds sharply.

By the way Alistair's shoulders hunch, Daylen knows that arrow hit the mark. He can only hope it killed the misplaced guilt while it was at it.

"But if they're responsible for their actions," Daylen goes on, picking his words with care, "then I'm responsible for mine, and you don't get to feel guilty about my actions any more than you're allowed to feel guilty about theirs."

"I still don't see how you have anything to feel guilty about."

"Sometimes things come out of nowhere and throw me back there," Daylen says. "And there's nothing I can do but ride it out. That's not what happened yesterday. I knew what was happening, and I could have stopped it."

Alistair sucks in a deep, indignant breath. Daylen talks over him.

"Look at it this way. When you were a recruit, there was someone in charge of you, right? Some templar who made sure you all got to meals and lessons without burning the place down." Daylen would love to burn Bournshire Monastery to the foundations and salt the earth besides, but that's not the point. "There was someone responsible for you."

"Yes," Alistair says cautiously, like he's watching for a trap.

"And if one of you did manage to get around that person and do something idiotic, you'd have been punished, but the person in charge of you would have been, too, right?"

"If it was bad enough to get the Knight-Commander's attention, yeah."

"Why?"

By the pause that follows, Alistair thinks the question is rhetorical. Only when Daylen doesn't provide an answer does Alistair offer, "Because he was responsible for us. It was his job to keep us from doing anything permanently stupid."

"Why was it his job?"

"Because you can't just let a bunch of twelve-year-olds take care of themselves," Alistair says. "Not when there are swords around."

Daylen huffs a soft laugh at the attempted joke. "Right. He was responsible for you--all of you--because you couldn't be responsible for yourselves. Right?"

"Right, but what does that have to do with-...oh."

"Yes," Daylen says. "Exactly. I'm not trying to say that any of what the templars did was my fault. All I'm saying is that this one part of what happened yesterday is mine. I knew there was a problem, I knew I could have stopped it, and I didn't. That's all, just this one little piece, but it's mine, and you don't get to claim it, or say it's not mine, because you're not responsible for me."

He's breathing hard by the end, the words tumbling out fast and fierce, his hand gripping Alistair's so tight his bones ache.

"All right," Alistair says, without trying to shake him off or make him loosen his grip. "I think I see." Before Daylen can say anything, Alistair adds, his tone almost as fierce, "But if you're responsible for not saying anything, then I'm responsible for not thinking. I knew where templars trained at Bournshire went. I should have thought about what that meant for you, not just what it meant for me. If I'm not responsible for you, then you're not responsible for me, and you don't get to tell me not to feel bad for the part that _is_ my fault."

Fair enough. Daylen nods to grant him the point, then bumps his shoulder against Alistair's and says with a smile, "Technically, I think I am responsible for you, since I somehow ended up in charge of this group of lunatics."

Alistair bumps his shoulder in return. "That's not what I meant."

But he's smiling.

They sit in silence for a long time after that, even Barkspawn quiet. It's not a comfortable silence, but Daylen isn't in a hurry to break it. The pain of it is sharp and bright, like a knife cutting him from throat to groin. Or like Zevran's knife, cutting open the badly-healed wound on his thigh so Morrigan could help it heal properly. Pain with a purpose.

A stone's throw away--assuming Alistair was doing the throwing rather than Daylen--the campfire burns brightly, the others gathered around it with bowls in their hands. Bodahn and Sandal are there, too, the wagon closed up for the night. Daylen can see them, can hear their voices if he tries, but they seem very far away. A brighter, more cheerful world, not this dark and silent one where he and Alistair sit.

On the other hand, his dark and silent world does have Alistair. If he has to pick, the others can have the campfire so long as he gets to keep Alistair.


	9. Wild and Vicious and Beautiful in its Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm all over the place in terms of how long between posting chapters. Two weeks, a month, a week, three days...
> 
> But!
> 
> Going forward: Monday night or Tuesday morning. Tuesdays are date night, which gives me a fixed marker so I can't keep losing track of how long it's been. Even I am capable of remembering whether I posted a chapter yesterday.
> 
> And Tatteredleaf, that is totally permission to ask if you haven't seen anything by Wednesday morning. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More new tags, check 'em out (really, it's the same tag two different ways). How is "Dark Ritual" a less common tag than "Dragon Age: Origins Quest - Morrigan's Ritual"? Clearly other people are not as lazy (and/or as prone to typos) as I am.
> 
> I'm stealing a bit of game dialogue here (and have in a couple places in earlier chapters, I just forgot to say so), and fudging a few more parts of canon. I also realize the fights in this chapter are way on the short side, but I pretty much suck at fight scenes, so I didn't want to even try to write anything longer. Yes, there is actually a situation in which I actively avoid throwing more words at the page. Shocking, I know.
> 
> Oh, and was anyone else completely baffled by Sten's decision to stage a coup at Haven? Maybe it was just me....

They continue south on the Imperial Highway, skirting the banks of Lake Calenhad until Brother Genitivi's notes indicate they should turn west. After Orzammar, Daylen has a new appreciation for what it means to negotiate from a position of power, and if the Urn of Sacred Ashes can give him that, then he's willing to risk a few weeks searching for it. Genitivi's map is clear enough. If they reach the spot where Haven is supposed to be and find nothing, then they'll return to the road and continue on to Redcliffe.

This isn't Gherlen's Pass, frequently travelled and well maintained, and even that was too much for Bodahn's wagon to make reasonable speed. They part from Bodahn at the last village before Genitivi's map has them leaving the road, with Barkspawn to act as his guard. Remembering the last time he left Barkspawn behind, Daylen feels a twinge of unease, but he reminds himself he's being irrational. Leaving her with Bodahn doesn't mean Haven will be anything like the Deep Roads.

He feels exposed and vulnerable anyway, even with Alistair beside him.

It takes them the better part of a week to make their way through the mountains, but each step of the way matches Genitivi's notes. Daylen's confidence grows, and he begins to make real plans for what he'll do with Andraste's ashes once he has them. Up to now, he hasn't let himself entertain anything except the occasional idle dream, not when the odds of finding the Urn were so slim. The day they spot smoke rising into the sky, too much of it to be a single campfire, Daylen wants to hug every single person in the party.

The only shadow over his excitement is Sten, who withdraws from everyone the further into the mountains they go. Daylen would suspect the sickness that can strike people high in the mountains, or perhaps a fear of heights, but the road to Orzammar took them higher and Sten never blinked. Any attempt to draw him out is met with stony silence, and after the third time, Daylen gives up.

The presence of a guard at Haven's gate is curious--why would such an inaccessible village need a guard--and talking to the man takes Daylen from curious to suspicious. He hardly needs Morrigan's comment that the villagers are hiding something, but he gives her a small nod of agreement.

"A moment," he says to the guard, then leads the others back down the trail and around a curve, taking them out of both sight and hearing.

He opens his mouth to ask whether the others think it would be better to enter the village openly now or try to sneak in after dark, but before he can, Sten growls, "Interesting strategy."

Daylen turns to look at him, surprised to find Sten glaring a challenge.

"Tell me," Sten says, voice heavy with sarcasm, "do you intend to keep going north until it becomes south and attack the archdemon from the rear?"

Is this what he's been stewing about for the past week? If so, his decision to argue about it now, only a few hundred feet from Haven's gate, is poorly timed.

"The archdemon is our goal," Sten says, when Daylen doesn't immediately answer, "and we are heading away from it to find the charred remnants of a dead woman."

Leliana gasps in horror, and Alistair's shoulders straighten in protest. Even Morrigan looks surprised, though she, like Daylen, probably agrees with Sten's irreverence for Andraste's ashes, if not his choice of words.

"The charred remains of a dead woman who's worshipped by thousands of people as the Maker's bride." Daylen can feel his anger rising, and he takes a tighter grip on his staff, fingers digging into the wood. If he and Sten were alone, he could meet Sten's bluntness with his own and point out how valuable that makes the ashes. With Leliana and Alistair looking on, he limits himself to, "They'll give people faith in us, and we need that."

Sten sneers and says, "I will not simply follow in your shadow as you run from battle."

The implication that he's both a liar and a coward does nothing for Daylen's temper, and he forgets any semblance of tact. "Then I guess we'll be going to Haven without you."

"No," Sten says. "You won't, because I'm taking command."

Daylen is shocked speechless, but habit takes over as Sten draws his huge two-handed sword. After so many ambushes, Daylen's mind has linked surprise with the need for a shield, and magic rushes forward to protect him without any conscious thought. The sword bounces harmlessly away, and that's all the time Daylen needs to recover himself.

More magic lashes out, and the ground under Sten's feet explodes, throwing him back. He rolls to his feet quicker than should be possible in that much armor, but Daylen is ready for him. The next spell is pure force, fed by anger and frustration, and it drags Sten back to the ground to pin him there.

The others have drawn their weapons, but Daylen slashes the air with his hand. "Don't," he snaps. "I have this."

Without waiting for a reply, he draws his belt knife and stalks over to Sten, who's struggling futilely to break the spell's hold. He stops fighting when Daylen puts a knee in the center of his breastplate and leans over to stab the dagger into the ground barely an inch from his head.

Daylen's face is flushed, his heart pounding in his throat and fingertips, but he makes his voice freezingly polite as he asks, "Are we done?"

"I yield," Sten says.

"Are you staying or going?"

Sten searches his face, and Daylen stares coldly back. "I did not think you strong enough to lead," Sten says at last. "I was wrong."

"Yes," Daylen says, "you were." He doesn't have the patience to go into all the things Sten has wrong, so he says instead, "Answer my question."

"If you will allow me to stay, then I will."

Having spared Zevran's life, Daylen can't very well banish Sten for the same crime, and he needs every fighter he can get. When he isn't so angry, Daylen will even be able to accept that with a modicum of grace. Now, he snarls, "We're going to Haven."

"I understand."

"And we're going to find Andraste's ashes."

Sten only nods.

"And you will never, _ever_ ," Daylen jerks his dagger out of the ground with unnecessary force, "do this again."

He rises to his feet and walks away, his back to Sten. Let him interpret that however he wants, as trust or contempt; Daylen is finished. He needs Sten's sword, not his friendship, and he won't forget that again.

The trail's last switchback looks out over the mountains and the foothills, with no sign of Haven or his companions, which makes it an excellent place for Daylen to stand while he gets his temper under control. If he takes out some of his anger on the defenseless lichen covering the rock at his feet, grinding it to powder under the butt of his staff, no one else has to know.

When he's stopped decimating the lichen and his staff has rested quietly against his shoulder for a while, cautious footsteps approach. Daylen turns, expecting to find Zevran once again accepting the role as stalking goat for his temper, only to find Alistair instead.

Alistair pauses as soon as Daylen looks at him, but he closes the distance between them readily enough when Daylen gives him a wry smile.

"That was unexpected," Daylen says.

"Yeah." Alistair blows out a long breath, then gives Daylen a look from the corner of his eye. "You were amazing, though."

Daylen has no idea what expression is on his face, but it must not be the right one, because Alistair adds hurriedly, "I mean, not that I wanted that to happen, or want it to happen again, or want you to have to fight anyone-"

"Alistair," Daylen says. "It's fine. I know what you meant, it just wasn't what I was expecting."

"Did you think we'd take his side?" Alistair sounds appalled at the very idea.

"No," Daylen lies. He honestly hadn't been at all sure how the others would react. He's not an especially gifted leader, and while he's better than he was, he'll never be Duncan. A tiny part of him even thinks he should have let Sten take over. At least Sten has experience.

"Well, we didn't," Alistair says. "We wouldn't." He stares out over the mountains, turning enough that Daylen can't get a good look at his face. "I wouldn't. Ever."

"I know," Daylen says. He rests an arm lightly over Alistair's shoulders, because that, at least, is the truth. Alistair's loyalty is impossible to doubt.

They stand like that for a long time, even when Alistair puts a tentative arm around his shoulders in turn, the moment stretching longer than Daylen usually allows. It feels good to stand this close, and he wants to be selfish for a little while. The fact that various edges and points of Alistair's armor are digging painfully into his skin is annoying, but it's a price he's willing to pay.

"So," Daylen says eventually, "I was amazing?"

Alistair laughs. "You really were."

Warmth fills Daylen's chest, unaffected by the cold voice reminding him how dangerous it is to care what anyone thinks of him.

Just to spite that voice, Daylen says, "That means a lot to me." The words come out warmer than he meant, so he adds somewhat awkwardly, "You're a good friend."

Alistair gives him a look Daylen can't read. He knows what he wants it to mean, but he wants it too much and so he doesn't trust himself to interpret it correctly.

 _"I want to be more than friends,"_ he imagines saying to Alistair. _"But I don't know what you want, because you never say anything."_ The arm around his shoulders is promising, but Zevran or Leliana would do the same thing, and Daylen is absolutely positive neither of them wants to kiss him. He needs more than hints and maybes before he'll cross that line with Alistair, because once crossed, he can't ever go back.

"Come on," Daylen says on a sigh. "We should get back to the others."

He slips out from under Alistair's arm, and it doesn't escape his notice that Alistair's hand skims across his shoulders when it didn't have to. Before Daylen can get a good look at his face, Alistair is walking away.

Maker damn him.

Maker damn both of them.

###

If Daylen wasn't already suspicious of Haven's residents, the blood-covered altar would have opened his eyes to their danger. The Redcliffe knight they find dead in the back room of the shop only confirms it.

The day devolves from there into a seemingly-endless round of skirmishes against cultists and dragonlings. They fight their way to the chantry and then through it, through the temple and the caves connected to it, sweating and bleeding for every step they gain. Daylen's willingness to listen to Kolgrim's offer is less about diplomacy and more about a chance to rest, and he accepts the vial of blood because it's easier than fighting their way through yet more cultists. Taking the blood doesn't mean he has to use it, something he has to point out to Alistair in low whispers as they continue through the caverns.

To Daylen's surprise, Leliana doesn't protest his apparent acceptance of Kolgrim's bargain, but maybe he should have expected that: she was an Orlesian bard, and for all her soft heart, she likely has a better understanding of intrigue than any of them except Zevran. Daylen doesn't doubt she'd have something to say were he foolish enough to actually defile Andraste's ashes in her presence, but since he has no intention of doing so, it doesn't matter. He needs the power the ashes will buy more than he needs the satisfaction of saying "fuck you" to the Maker and His bride.

The appearance of Kolgrim's risen Andraste is a shock, and Daylen is still wide-eyed and breathless when they reach the Gauntlet. He answers the Guardian's questions absently, most of his mind occupied with muttering, _A high dragon, a fucking high dragon,_ over and over.

His attention is caught, however, when the Guardian turns to Alistair.

"Alistair, knight and Warden." The Guardian studies Alistair, his ice-blue eyes piercing. "You wonder if things would have been different if you were with Duncan on the battlefield."

Daylen's skin goes cold.

"You could have shielded him from the killing blow," the Guardian says in his distant, implacable voice. "You wonder, don't you, if you should have died and not him."

"I..." Alistair begins, then his gaze drops to the floor as he says quietly, "Yes."

On some level, Daylen knew Alistair felt that way, but hearing it aloud is like being stabbed with an icicle. The chill on his skin settles into his bones.

"If Duncan had survived and not me, everything _would_ be better." Alistair says it with calm conviction, as if the words should be preceded by, _"These truths the Maker has revealed to me."_

There has to be some magic at work to keep them all silent when the Guardian isn't addressing them. It's the only explanation for why Daylen can't voice even one of the arguments filling his throat.

"If I'd just had the chance, maybe I..." Alistair doesn't finish the thought, and the Guardian doesn't ask him to.

If the others weren't present, Daylen would grab Alistair and shake him until he understands everything that's wrong with what he's just said. Since the others are present, he grips his staff and listens in grim silence to the remaining questions. Morrigan's dismissive, "Begone, spirit, I will not play your games," does make his lips twitch, though.

She catches the expression and returns him a flash of a smile, there and gone so fast he isn't sure he really saw it.

"The way is open," the Guardian says at last. "Good luck, and may you find what you seek."

He disappears in a flash of light before Daylen can respond. Just as well, really: what Daylen has to say to him is unlikely to help them reach the ashes. At least the pause has given Daylen a chance to take a mental step back and admit that shaking Alistair would accomplish nothing. There's no way to force the truth into his head; Daylen will have to convince him. Somehow.

The problem hovers at the back of Daylen's thoughts as they make their way through the rest of the Gauntlet. Leliana is on the verge of religious ecstasy, and the others are, to one degree or another, impressed by the magic and history around them. All Daylen wants is to be done with the place, and he hurries them along as best he can.

The Urn itself is unimpressive, and Daylen is frustrated that each of them is allowed only a single pinch of the ashes. All his plans for presenting the Urn to the Chantry fall apart, but he immediately starts building new plans from the rubble. If the ashes will do what the Guardian says, then a pinch or two may be all Daylen needs, especially with Genitivi to bear witness.

With the ashes secured, Daylen wants to hurry them all on their way, but hurrying Leliana through Andraste's final resting place is impossible. It doesn't matter that she saw it all once already; now she wants to study it rather than simply admire it in passing. Daylen has to point out that their options are rapidly dwindling to either descending the mountain in the dark or sleeping inside Haven's walls before she reluctantly tears herself away. Even with that motivation, she pauses often, "just for a moment," and Daylen is almost as irritated with her as he is with Sten by the time they emerge from the Gauntlet.

Where they come face to face with Kolgrim and his remaining cultists, and Daylen is suddenly very glad for the leisurely stroll that gave all of them a chance to recover from their earlier fights. Without that rest, it might have been a real fight, but having had time to catch their collective breath, it's barely an annoyance.

The high dragon, on the other hand, is far more than an annoyance. Drawn by the blood or the noise of their fight with Kolgrim, she swoops down from her perch as the last of the cultists fall, and her roar is deafening.

 _At least she'll get a good meal out of us,_ Daylen thinks calmly. And then: _In death, sacrifice, I suppose._

For some reason, the thought makes him laugh.

Still deaf from her roar but also still grinning, Daylen stretches out one arm, palm turned toward the dragon, and sends a spray of ice in her direction just as Morrigan does the same. Hundreds of ice shards slam into the dragon's side, and she staggers sideways, snapping at the ice as if at another animal attacking her. Daylen and Morrigan hit her the same way again, working together now to overlap their spells and concentrate the force into the smallest area possible.

The ice slashes through the dragon's scales, but Daylen doesn't have time to appreciate that: she's turning in their direction, her mouth open wide and fire gathering deep in her throat. Daylen throws himself one way, Morrigan the other, and the ball of fire splashes down harmlessly on bare rock.

Daylen rolls to his feet as fast as he can, afraid of being caught by another attack while he's still on the ground, but Alistair is already between him and the dragon. Sten and Oghren are circling wide to flank her while her attention is fixed on Alistair, and three of Leliana's arrows are buried to the fletching in the dragon's side. Beyond Alistair, Daylen can see Morrigan and Leliana sheltering behind a broken wall. That leaves only...

Zevran drops seemingly from nowhere onto the dragon's head, one knife drawn and the other hand reaching for whatever he can grab. That turns out to be one of her horns, which he uses to flip himself around so he can stab her in the throat. She screams in pain and flings her head from side to side, trying to shake Zevran loose. For a moment, Daylen thinks Zevran will be able to hang on, but then he's flying through the air in a blur of green leather and blond hair.

Trying to wrap a shield spell around a target moving at the speed of a rock thrown from a catapult isn't something Daylen has practiced much, and he doesn't have time to see if it worked. Zevran lands somewhere on the other side of another broken wall, and the dragon, now enraged, is lashing out with her wings and tail at the rest of them. Daylen throws another shield around Alistair, who still seems to have most of the dragon's attention, and reaches deep inside himself for enough magic to drive ice into the wound he and Morrigan created earlier.

The dragon staggers, weakened and confused by blood loss. She tries to spit fire at them again but misses, and when she rears onto her hind legs, wings spread wide, Sten and Oghren rush in to attack the thinner scales of her belly. She screams again, and Daylen knows she's done.

"Go!" Alistair yells at Daylen without looking away from the dragon. "We have this, go check him!"

No need to ask who he means.

Vaulting fallen pillars and slipping on loose dirt, Daylen runs for the last place he saw Zevran, afraid of what he'll find, but Zevran is already on his feet. His left arm is twisted at a decidedly unnatural angle, but his eyes focus on Daylen immediately.

"Have I missed the rest of the fun, then?" Zevran asks. He's grinning too widely for someone whose arm looks like that.

Which is when Daylen realizes his own face hurts, because he's grinning, too. Still grinning.

From behind him comes another scream, this one cut abruptly short. The silence that descends makes Daylen's ears ring as much as the dragon's initial roar.

"Ah," Zevran sighs, "it would seem that I have. A pity."

Running feet and the clanging of armor announce Alistair, with the others hard on his heels.

"You're all right?" Alistair demands of Zevran. He doesn't give Zevran a chance to answer before asking Daylen, "He's all right?"

"He'll be fine," Daylen says, at the same time Zevran says, "I am perfect, as always."

"That arm doesn't look perfect," Alistair says.

Zevran shrugs, then winces in immediate regret. "Ah, well, yes. Perhaps the arm could be better." His grin returns, broader than ever. "A high dragon! How many can say they killed a high dragon? And my attack was quite impressive, was it not?"

"Some people just like to show off," Alistair says, as if he's not grinning, too.

"Let me see your arm," Daylen says to Zevran, trying and failing to tamp down his own grin. "So you can say you killed a high dragon, _and_ feed yourself tonight."

It's a bad break, but nowhere near as bad as Alistair's shoulder was. Leliana and Alistair can set the bone, and Daylen has enough magic left to start it healing properly.

While they work, Sten takes Morrigan and Oghren back down into the caverns in search of a good place to rest for the night. They're all too tired to walk back to the temple, and the caves are empty of any threats for the moment. Their party will be long gone before anything dares move in where a dragon once nested.

"Elfroot," Daylen says when he's satisfied Zevran's arm is healing the way it should. "And take it easy for the next few days."

"Of course, my dear Warden." Zevran gives him a raised-eyebrow look. "Did you plan to tend your own injuries now, or later?"

"My what?" Daylen asks stupidly. He follows Zevran's pointing finger down to his own legs, and realizes that the dragon's fireball didn't miss completely.

And that's when the pain hits.

Alistair catches Daylen before he falls. "Should I get Morrigan?" he asks as he eases Daylen to the ground.

"No," Daylen says through gritted teeth. "Just...give me a moment."

The burns are bad, but they're small, and there aren't many of them; when the first fireball landed, it must have splashed his legs as he dodged out of the way. Maybe a dozen burns dot his skin, the largest no bigger than a sovereign, and they've gone deep enough they don't hurt as much as they could. Daylen is more upset about his trousers, which now have holes burned in them. He can heal his legs, but he can't do the same for his clothes and he doesn't have so many he can afford to lose even a single pair of trousers. His only consolation is that the sparks missed his robes, which would be more expensive to replace than everything else he owns combined.

Healing the burns completely is beyond Daylen's strength after everything else that's happened today, and he doesn't even try. Tomorrow, when he and Morrigan aren't completely worn out, one or both of them can work a real healing spell. For now, Daylen gathers a bit of magic from somewhere and lets it sink into the burns, concentrating his efforts on the damage down below the skin. All he wants is to deal with the worst of it.

The world spins when he opens his eyes, and he closes them immediately. "I'm all right," he says to forestall any questions. "I just need another moment."

"Or two," Alistair mutters.

Daylen makes an obscene gesture in the direction of his voice. "Fine, yes, or two." The ground is right where he left it, conveniently positioned for him to press his palms to it and keep himself sitting upright. "What about you?"

"I'm fine," Alistair says. Then, irritably, "But one of those cultists put a dent in my breastplate."

"Better the breastplate than you."

"Yeah." There's a scrape of metal on metal, and Daylen imagines Alistair poking the dent with gauntleted fingers. "I don't think I'm going to be able to fix that myself, either. Asshole."

"How dare they try to kill you while you're trying to kill them," Daylen says, straight-faced.

"Exactly! That's not how it's supposed to work. Don't they know anything?" Another scrape of metal as he pokes at the dent again. "It's probably all that living in a remote village and murdering anyone who visits. You just don't get the opportunity to learn the finer points of combat that way."

"Tragic." Daylen tries to keep a straight face, he really does, but he can feel the grin struggling to escape. "Just the one dent? I thought I saw the dragon catch you with her tail."

"She did," Alistair says dismissively. "It's fine."

"Right," Daylen says. "It cracked one of my ribs just watching her hit you, but it's fine."

"That's my job, right?" Alistair says. "I let them hit me so you can hit them harder."

"I think I get the better end of that deal."

"Nah," Alistair says in tones of deep satisfaction, "I get to see the looks on their faces when they try to get past me and can't. They get so grumpy about it, and then I get to knock them down, and that's even better."

"Well, I'm not going to complain if you want to stand between me and people with pointy things." Daylen's grin is now well and truly escaped. "I promise to let you make them grumpy before I hit them."

"Deal," Alistair says.

In the pause that follows, Daylen opens one eye cautiously, then the other when the world remains properly oriented.

A few feet away, Alistair leans against the broken wall, which is just the right height for him to prop his ass on it. His shield is slung over his back once more, his arms crossed over his chest, and his eyes intent on Daylen.

Zevran and Leliana are nowhere to be seen.

Correctly interpreting Daylen's frown, Alistair says, "They went to get supplies for a litter."

"No," Daylen says.

"Well, yes, actually, they did."

Daylen's thoughts are still scattered from the fight, so he can't think of a response wittier than another obscene gesture. "I don't need a litter."

"Mm," Alistair says, sounding so much like Leliana that Daylen laughs.

"A high dragon!" Daylen says. The words are running circles in his head, and he can't keep them in any longer. "We killed a fucking _high dragon_!"

"Ugh," Alistair says. "You're as bad as Zevran."

The memory of Zevran landing on the dragon's head makes Daylen laugh again, and all right, maybe he's a little drunk on exhaustion and everything that's happened. "I can't believe he did that."

"What, try to ride a dragon?" Alistair asks dryly. "Neither can I."

"Neither can the dragon," Daylen says around another fit of laughter. He gulps air, trying to get himself under control, and says in an almost normal voice, "You have to admit, it was amazing."

"I don't have to admit anything." Alistair keeps a straight face for maybe three breaths, and then he's laughing, too. "But yeah, it was amazing."

By the time they've stopped laughing, the world has been stationary for long enough that Daylen is cautiously optimistic about his ability to stand, especially if it means avoiding a ride in a litter. "Help me up," he says to Alistair, waving both hands in the air like a small child asking to be carried. Another laugh--it is absolutely not a giggle--escapes before he can swallow it.

Alistair pushes himself off the wall with a groan, and the elation sparking in Daylen's blood catches on that sound and begins to burn.

Between the pleasant heat spreading through him at Alistair's nearness and the lingering effects of the less-pleasant heat of the fireball, Daylen's legs aren't as steady as he'd hoped, but Alistair doesn't protest that he ought to stay seated. He puts Daylen's arm around his shoulders, threading it carefully between his neck and the shield still strapped to his back. Being pressed against Alistair's armored side is no more physically comfortable than it's ever been, unless Daylen accounts for the fact that being so close means he's no longer aware of the remaining burns on his legs. He's too busy reminding himself how bad an idea it would be to nuzzle Alistair's neck.

"Ready?" Alistair asks. At Daylen's nod, he starts forward slowly, and they begin to pick their way through the rubble toward the mouth of the tunnel.

Navigating the trail, which is now littered with bodies and cracked from the fight with the dragon, requires most of Daylen's attention. Alistair is strong enough to simply carry him, but it would be awkward with Daylen' height, not to mention embarrassing should any of the others see.

 _Also unfair,_ Daylen reminds himself sardonically, attention turning briefly inward. _Since he just fought a dragon, if you recall._

That moment of inattention costs him his footing as he steps over a small fissure onto what looks like solid ground, right up until it crumbles under his weight. He swears and tries instinctively to let go of Alistair, who tries to hold on to steady him. Alistair is strong, but Daylen isn't a small man, and they stagger sideways together, straight into one of the pillars that survived the fight.

Daylen winds up between Alistair and the stonework, and for a moment, he's pinned as effectively as if Alistair has done it on purpose. His heart thuds unpleasantly in his chest, and years of unwanted training freeze him in place.

"Shit," Alistair says, jerking away. "Shit, I'm s-"

"Don't." With his skin still prickling in reaction, the word comes out sharper than Daylen meant. He swallows, takes a deep breath, and says in a more normal voice, "Don't apologize. It wasn't anyone's fault."

Alistair has put several feet between them, but he pulls off a gauntlet and takes a cautious step back in when Daylen holds out a hand to him. His grip is so gentle it barely counts, and he holds himself stiffly as Daylen tugs him closer.

Daylen's legs aren't quite trustworthy yet, so he doesn't want to step away from the pillar if he doesn't have to, but he manages to pull Alistair in and turn the two of them at the same time. It puts them face to face, Daylen's shoulder propped against the pillar while Alistair stands nearly at attention, his body vibrating with tension and his face pale.

"It was an accident," Daylen says. "And I know that."

"I still-"

Daylen cuts him off gently. "No. You didn't."

"I saw your face," Alistair insists. "I scared you."

If it were almost anyone else, Daylen would die rather than agree with any part of that statement, but this is Alistair. "I was scared," he admits, "but it had nothing to do with you."

Before Alistair can argue, Daylen sets off a tiny flash of magic in front of Alistair's face. Alistair's head jerks back instinctively, and he releases Daylen's hand to grab for his sword.

"What was that?" Alistair demands

"A demonstration," Daylen says. "If I told you I was going to do it again, and asked you not to move, would you do it?"

"Yes, but-"

"Why? You flinched just now. You almost drew your sword."

Alistair huffs out an exasperated breath. "All right, yes, I get it, because you startled me, but it's not the same."

"It is," Daylen says. "You've trained all your life to fight, and when something startles you, you react a certain way. It's a habit, that's all, and it doesn't mean you don't trust me."

"I wanted to learn to fight. You didn't want-" He cuts himself off, his jaw clenching.

"I didn't," Daylen agrees. "But that's still nothing to do with you." His legs are feeling steadier, and he dares to push himself away from the pillar so he's standing straight.

Alistair's hand is tight on the hilt of his sword, but his fist uncurls slowly when Daylen touches the back.

"That habit won't ever go away," Daylen says. "Maybe someday I'll get to the point where it only shows up occasionally, but it's always going to be there."

The look on Alistair's face nearly breaks Daylen's heart, and he reacts without thinking, cupping the back of Alistair's neck to press their foreheads together.

"No, listen to me," he murmurs. "It will always be there, but I'm not going to let them win by giving up." Alistair still looks stricken, so Daylen adds, "Come on, when have you ever known me to give up?"

Alistair snorts softly in answer.

"Exactly." He tightens his grip on the back of Alistair's neck. "Pain isn't a reason to stop fighting, remember? It will always be there, and I'll keep going anyway, because I can."

There are other things he could do, too. Alistair's mouth is so close, all Daylen would have to do is tilt his head and lean forward a couple inches. He could press his palms to Alistair's face to feel stubble scrape his skin, or bury his fingers in Alistair's hair to find out what would happen.

Alistair licks his lips nervously, and while the sight goes straight to Daylen's cock, it also reminds him of something important he was in danger of forgetting: those flashes of fear he's seen in Alistair's face whenever Daylen gets too close. As soon as Daylen remembers, he can see it in Alistair's wide eyes and feel it in the tense muscles of his neck.

Daylen releases him and takes a careful step back, not wanting his legs to fail him now. "Sorry," he says, looking anywhere but at Alistair. "I might have gotten a little carried away."

"It's fine," Alistair says. He sounds strangled and deeply uncomfortable, and Daylen hides a wince.

"Let's get back," Daylen says. He takes a few cautious steps toward the tunnel, relieved when his legs hold his weight. They're aching again, but since it keeps him from thinking about Alistair's mouth, he's not complaining.

They walk the rest of the way to the tunnel in awkward silence, and Daylen is relieved to see Leliana and Sten coming toward them. He's relieved enough not to ask what took them so long; if he'd decided to wait for the litter, he would have become concerned long before now.

Their presence seems to relax Alistair, which only makes Daylen feel worse. When Alistair falls in step beside Leliana, Daylen accepts it and walks beside Sten, even though Sten is the last person he wants to talk to right now.

As they make their way to the cavern where they'll camp for the night, Leliana and Alistair pull gradually ahead of Daylen's slow, limping pace. Sten, alas, shortens his stride to stay by Daylen.

"You don't have to wait for me," Daylen says. "It's not like I can get lost in here." There aren't any branches in the tunnel between here and their campsite.

Sten grunts acknowledgement but doesn't walk any faster.

Fine. If he wants to be stoic and silent, Daylen is just as happy not to talk to him right now.

Even if the silence does feel like it's adding weight to his shoulders with every step.

"I was wrong," Sten says abruptly.

"Yes." Other words gather at the back of Daylen's throat, but he holds them back. It isn't like Sten to go over old ground, so if he's bringing this up, he has something to say that he didn't say before.

"I forgot my place," he says.

Daylen controls his eyebrows with an effort and nods to show he's listening.

"It is not a warrior's place to question his commander, or to demand every detail of his battle plans."

Not a sentiment Daylen necessarily agrees with, but he recognizes that right now, it's in his best interests to nod again.

"It is difficult to remember, without my brothers or my soul."

After a startled moment, Daylen remembers that Sten means his sword, the one he lost and that they hadn't been able to track down in the market outside Orzammar's gates. The one that's well and truly lost, when all they have is the name of a merchant who might be anywhere, or might even be dead in some skirmish with darkspawn. That he was once in Redcliffe isn't much help: merchants move around.

"I'm going to keep looking," Daylen says. Because he is, though Maker only knows where he'll start.

Sten is thoughtful for a long time before he says, "Perhaps those words are empty, but thank you all the same."

It's not what Daylen would call gracious, but he's getting used to that from Sten.

They walk the rest of the way in silence, and Daylen is glad to part ways with him once they reach the cavern where the others are setting up camp.

With no hunting or cooking to be done and no tents to set up, it doesn't take long to finish, leaving all of them at loose ends but too restless to sleep. A high dragon attempting to make a meal of them isn't something they ever expected to face, let alone survive. Their normal routines don't fit well, not tonight.

Determined to set a good example, Daylen looks at Alistair and raises his eyebrows enquiringly.

"Now?" Alistair asks in surprise. "Tonight?"

Daylen ignores both Zevran's snicker and Alistair's resulting blush. "We don't have anything else to do. Might as well practice for a little while." It's the absolute truth, but it isn't the complete truth. Alistair has been giving him pensive looks whenever he thinks no one is looking, thinking too hard so obviously it might as well be written on his forehead. If Daylen knew some other way to put them back on the right footing, he would take it and forego practicing when he's this tired, but he can't think of anything. He might as well stick to the strategy that's worked in the past.

"Unless you're tired?" Daylen asks belatedly.

"I'm not the one getting hit," Alistair says, scrambling to his feet to follow Daylen to the far side of the cavern.

They find a niche where they're not easily seen--Daylen has done his best all along to discourage spectators, and he's not about to change that now--and they settle in as best they can. It's more awkward than usual for Daylen: crossing his legs is painful with the half-healed burns and stretching his legs out in front of him takes up too much space.

He's still fidgeting a little when he says to Alistair, "All right."

Then he remembers something he wanted to say to Alistair, something that got lost in the fight with the dragon. Something he wants to say before his head is pounding and his stomach turning.

"Oh, w-"

He doesn't get to finish. The smite lands on his head with the usual sickening thud, scattering what little magic he had after a day like today.

Except...except it's not the usual sick feeling that sweeps over him. It's not pleasant, but he doesn't feel like he might vomit. He's experienced worse vertigo from standing up too quickly.

Everything else flies out of his head. "Again," he orders Alistair, gathering his magic and bracing himself.

To his disappointment, this time is more what he's come to expect: nausea chokes him and he has to press his palms hard against the ground to remind himself which way is up. It's not as bad as usual, but it's still bad. Gathering his magic takes longer than he would ever be allowed in a real fight.

Daylen knows Alistair won't strike him again until told to do it, so he keeps his eyes closed even when the nausea fades. What's different? What changed in the space of a few breaths to make such a difference?

"Did you hit me harder the second time?" he asks. His voice is sharp with impatience, and he knows he needs to say something to soften it, but he can't, not when he can feel the answer hovering just out of reach.

"No!" Alistair says. "Maybe a little lighter, if anything, but I try to keep them all the same."

Daylen's thoughts are racing, darting down paths after potential explanations, jumping to the next when one doesn't fit. The last smite is still making his head spin, and sometimes everything in his head collides in a tangle of theory and memory and wishful thinking, but finally, finally, something rises out of the mess into the light. Daylen looks at it for a moment, then takes a chance.

"Again," he says to Alistair, afraid to raise his voice above a whisper in case he shouts instead.

Alistair does as he's told, Maker bless him, and there it is, lightheadedness that's nothing compared to the usual near-painful nausea. It's like standing in an open doorway while rain pours down outside: a few drops touch him, but most of it splashes down harmlessly.

His eyes snap open wide. "Again!"

He holds Alistair's gaze the whole time and watches his eyes widen when Daylen's don't close.

"Again."

The moment this one has flowed through him, he grabs what scraps of magic he can manage after a day spent fighting more cultists and dragons than he cares to think about. And it _works_ , power gathers inside him with only the briefest resistance, the Fade close enough for him to touch. His head is spinning for a different reason now, his thoughts scattered, and he can only think of one spell he has the strength for.

Multi-colored sparks burst silently from the roof of the cave, showering down on them and the others. Alistair's eyes flick up and then back down, a grin starting to spread over his face. The cave is high enough the sparks have plenty of time to cool before they reach anyone or anything flammable, which is good, because Daylen stopped paying attention the moment he finished the spell.

"Again."

This time, he doesn't get the timing right, and he reaches for the Fade at just the wrong moment. The smite scatters his concentration and his magic, but even as he huddles on the ground struggling not to throw up, he wants to laugh. The headache already beginning to throb at his temples matters about as much as the pebbles under his knees.

His first attempt to talk leaves him gagging, but the second time, he gasps out, "Your instructors." A pause to breathe through another wave of nausea. "They didn't tell you all of it."

He pushes himself up, grateful for Alistair's steadying hand, and adds, "There's more to it."

"What?" Alistair demands. "What's the rest?"

Another small piece clicks into place in Daylen's head. "That's why you...why they gesture. Why they point."

"Why does who point?" Alistair looks like he wants to grab Daylen and shake the answers out. "Templars?"

"I always thought it was just to be cruel," Daylen mutters, half to himself, "just something to drag the fear out, make us dread it before it happened, but it's not, is it? They want us to get ready for it." He drags his attention back to Alistair. "Because what do mages do to brace for an attack?"

"Magic," Alistair breathes, and Daylen can see the pieces falling into place for him. "You do," he waves his hands in a very bad impression of a mage casting a spell, "whatever it is you do to get magic together."

"Yes. We do..." He imitates Alistair's gesture. "...that." He wants to laugh again, the way he did after the fight with the dragon, and for the first time, he understands Zevran's "laugh or cry, it's all the same to Maker" philosophy. Because he wants to laugh, but part of him also wants to scream. It was so easy, so simple. He could have avoided months of letting Alistair hit him until he couldn't think, if only it had occurred to him to do anything except grab all the magic he could hold, every single time.

Daylen and Alistair both look up in surprise when someone clears their throat. Morrigan looks back at them, her eyebrows raised.

"I'm fine," Daylen says hastily. "We're fine."

Morrigan and her eyebrows stay where they are.

"We figured something out," Daylen adds. He wants her to go away, but it's slowly dawning on him that she needs to stay, because she needs to know this as much as he does. Her plan has always been to hit any templars before they know to smite her, and while she's never said anything, Daylen knows she thinks his practices with Alistair are a waste of time. And it's not as if Daylen and Alistair were in a hurry to have her join them.

"You need to practice with us," Daylen says, before he can talk himself out of it. "At least for a little while. There's a way to make it hurt less. We just figured it out."

"'Tis been a long day, and I would rather not let a templar hit me just now. But..." She looks back and forth between the two of them, clearly intrigued. "...tomorrow, perhaps."

"Tomorrow," Daylen agrees.

When she's gone away again, back to report to the others that Daylen and Alistair are both fine despite the sparks and the raised voices, Daylen gives Alistair an apologetic look. "Sorry, I know you don't like her, but I'm not going to keep this to myself. She needs to know it. Every mage needs to know it."

"I know." He flashes Daylen a quick grin. "I promise not to hit her extra hard."

"On her behalf, thank you." Daylen touches his forehead where the headache is pounding above his eye. "Probably a good thing she came over here, though. I might have kept us going, and I really need to stop."

Either he'd have kept going, or he would have tried to kiss Alistair, too excited to think before he acted. No need to share that thought with Alistair, though.

They sit quietly while Daylen sips the elfroot tea he's learned to make strong enough to help but not so strong his tongue tries to curl up and hide. Halfway through the cup, he remembers what distracted him in the first place and started all this.

Daylen reaches over to jab Alistair in the knee with two fingers. "What you said to the Guardian," he says, and waits for Alistair to nod. "If I could change what happened at Ostagar and save Duncan, I would."

"I know."

"I wasn't finished," Daylen says. "If I could save Duncan, I would, but..."

_"...not if it cost me you."_

"...not if it meant you died instead of him," he says.

Alistair looks down at his hands where they rest on his knees. "He would have done a better job than me."

"He would have done a better job than _me_ ," Daylen says. At Alistair's horrified glance, Daylen spreads his hands. "He would have, and we both know it."

The conflicted expression on Alistair's face makes the corner of Daylen's mouth twitch in a smile. He pokes Alistair in the knee again, more gently. "But are we really doing that badly? We have the elves and the dwarves, and you've said Eamon will support us."

Something shifts in Alistair's expression, and he looks guiltily away. So he's not as sure of Eamon's support as he pretends to be. That doesn't bother Daylen, who was never convinced in the first place that Alistair's confidence was warranted.

"We found Andraste's fucking ashes," Daylen says, leaning forward. "And killed a fucking high dragon." That makes Alistair smile. Good. "So are we really doing that badly?"

Alistair looks at Daylen, then around the cavern. "No," he says at last, bemused. "No, I guess we're not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So did you see where Daylen shot himself in the foot without realizing he'd done it? :) If you didn't, don't worry; it will get explained later.


	10. Glass Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I finally decided that, "but then I have to think of another title!" is a terrible reason not to split one chapter into two, when it really does need to be two. :P

They rejoin Bodahn, Sandal, and Barkspawn without finding too much trouble along the way, and from there, they turn south once again. Summer is still dragging on, but there are occasional breaks in the smothering heat, promising cooler weather just around the corner. It can't come soon enough, as far as Daylen is concerned.

Bodahn's weeks essentially alone in town have allowed him to pick up a new batch of rumors and gossip, all of which he wants to share as they travel. Daylen mostly lets the words wash over him the way he has in the past, sound without meaning that's nevertheless comforting in its familiarity, but one rumor catches his attention.

"Problems at the Circle?" he asks, interrupting Bodahn.

"That's what I hear," Bodahn says, spreading his hands to deny personal ownership of the words. "No one seems to have details, though."

"Probably because there aren't any," Daylen says, mouth twisting. People always think something has gone wrong where mages are concerned, and an entire Circle is an obvious target for fear and rumor.

It's not Daylen's problem, in any case. He's still hoping to avoid Kinloch Hold entirely, and he refuses to think about it any more than he has to until and unless that changes. Maybe the treaties he's already delivered, and the one he's about to deliver to Arl Eamon to claim Ferelden's aid, will be enough.

"But you were saying?" Daylen asks Bodahn, anxious to hurry the conversation on to other topics. "Something about Redcliffe?"

Bodahn is happy to launch into his next bit of gossip, and Daylen lets the words become background noise again. No point worrying about it now, not when they're headed in the wrong direction to check on the Circle. Redcliffe first, and then they'll see if he even needs the mages.

It's not as if they'll be getting to Redcliffe soon, not at the slow pace they're going now, and it only gets worse as they continue south. The road is jammed with people, most of them headed north, and even though they give Daylen's party a wide and wary berth, it doesn't make for quick travel. And wide berth or not, Daylen isn't happy with those wary looks. It's the same problem they had on the road to Orzammar, that they haven't had to worry about in months: they're too well armed to pass for farmers, and there are too many bandits around for the actual farmers to trust anyone who looks like they know how to use the sword they're carrying.

Up in the mountains, every merchant had guards, and almost every guard was in need of a bath and a shave. Even the ones wearing perfectly maintained armor and carrying weapons of the highest quality often still looked disreputable. If anything, Daylen's party looked better than most they saw in the mountains. So long as everyone is quick, Daylen and Morrigan between them can heat water and warm the air enough that stripping down isn't a battle of wills against the instinctive desire to avoid frostbite in awkward places. Some of them were more unkempt than others, but over all, they looked reassuringly presentable.

Surrounded by refugee farmers only recently made homeless, Daylen can't say the same. They might be cleaner than the average person they pass, but their clothes are worn and patched, and they look like they haven't slept indoors in months. Which would mostly be true and does nothing to help them look less like brigands. The fact that their weapons and armor are the best-cared for items any of them are carrying only draws attention to the fact that they're carrying them at all.

The day that a child actually runs screaming from him, Daylen decides he needs to at least make an effort to look less like a bandit captain. When there's a stream near the place Sten finds for them to camp that night, all of it far enough from the road they have it to themselves, Daylen takes it as a sign.

Warm as the weather is, no one needs encouragement to take the opportunity to wash up. It's late enough in the season that, even this close to the mountains, the water is at least not _painfully_ cold, and with a little thought, Daylen can position a heating spell upstream. It brings the water up to pleasantly cool by the time it passes near their campsite, the perfect temperature for a day like today.

"Useful," Alistair says. He's standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Daylen work.

Daylen refuses to admit to any possibility that he's making such profligate use of magic because cool water will be more comfortable for Alistair than cold, and he definitely isn't doing it to make Alistair smile at him like that. Certainly not. He's doing it for his own comfort, nothing more.

 _Liar,_ whispers the voice in the back of his head.

 _Fuck off,_ Daylen tells it and smiles at Alistair. "It won't last forever, so go enjoy it. Barkspawn and I can keep an eye on camp." He can scarcely avoid seeing Alistair naked from time to time, but he doesn't need to put himself in the way of a temptation that gets stronger every day. Alistair in sweat-soaked trousers and shirt is bad enough.

Later, after everyone has had a chance to bathe, Daylen works on shaving while Alistair, Zevran, and Leliana look on and make unnecessary jokes at his expense.

"You two don't get to say anything," Daylen says to Zevran and Leliana, after the third time he almost cuts himself because he laughed at the wrong moment. "You don't have to shave."

"You could always grow a beard," Leliana suggests, eyes narrowed speculatively. "I think you'd look quite the respectable merchant with a beard."

Daylen raises an eyebrow at her and gestures to the side of his face he hasn't finished with. "What do you call this?"

"A disgrace," she says, lip curling. "Worse than your hair, and the Maker knows I wouldn't have thought that possible. You can't just let it grow, you know. You have to trim it neatly and care for it."

Daylen's hair is a source of deep aggravation for Leliana. Cutting it always seems like a waste of time, but that means it looks like exactly what it is: a year's worth of growth, kept clean and combed but otherwise ignored. At least he can tie it back now that it's long enough, both to keep it out of his face and to avoid looking like a brigand.

Alistair is snickering, but before Daylen can say anything, Leliana turns and gives him a pointed sniff. "You're no better," she informs him.

"My face hasn't scared anyone lately," Alistair says, looking not the least bit cowed.

"Yet," Leliana mutters darkly. She turns her back on both of them--an impressive feat given they're on nearly opposite sides of her--and says to Zevran, "I think we should leave these barbarians alone. Such poor taste might be contagious."

Zevran takes her hand and kisses it flamboyantly, then holds it a little too long for his usual flirting. "Whatever you wish, oh most beautiful of bards."

"Flatterer," she says, looking pleased.

As Leliana and Zevran stroll away together, Alistair shoots Daylen an odd glance from the corner of one eye. "Does that bother you?" At Daylen's puzzled look, he adds, "Zevran flirting with Leliana."

Daylen snorts. "If I was bothered by Zevran flirting, I'd spend a lot of time bothered." It's such an odd question, though, that he asks, "Does it bother you?"

"What? No!" Alistair looks so sincerely baffled that Daylen shrugs mentally and lets the subject drop in favor of shaving off the last of the beard without also shaving off his nose.

"There," he says when he's done. He turns to present himself to Alistair and says with a grin, "Think this will spare anyone we meet tomorrow?"

Rather than laugh or make a joke, Alistair scrutinizes him with such unnerving intensity that Daylen is tempted to ask him if he wants to touch. Before Daylen can fool himself that it isn't a terrible idea, Alistair says quietly, "Yeah, it looks good." Then, louder and too brightly, "Do you want to practice now or later?"

Daylen opens his mouth to ask Alistair if he's all right, then changes his mind and says, "Now is good, if you're ready."

He pretends to forget about calling Morrigan over to join them. She's practiced with them most nights since Haven, and her presence grates on Daylen more than he likes to admit. Not because she and Alistair bicker--they're tersely polite to each other every moment until they return to the fire--but simply because she's there. Daylen hadn't realized how much he liked having time alone with Alistair every evening, time he no longer has. Everything takes twice as long now that both he and Morrigan are practicing, and by the time they're finished, there's no time for Daylen and Alistair to talk before supper. They can talk by the fire, but they're almost never alone anymore. Daylen hates it but can't come up with a plausible reason he and Alistair need to be alone every night, or even most nights.

At the moment, Morrigan is nowhere in sight, and Daylen is guiltily pleased to take that as an excuse. She doesn't practice with them every night, after all.

Whatever was bothering Alistair earlier, he seems to forget about it quickly enough, all his focus on the new rhythm of their practices. Morrigan's presence isn't the only change since Haven. Now that they know how to limit the effectiveness of a smite, Daylen has been practicing both cutting himself off from the Fade and opening himself back up to it as quickly as possible. The timing is critical, and he's learned that the difference between dodging the worst effects and being knocked to the ground is less than the space of a breath. He gets hit almost as often as he did before.

While he could simply remain cut off from the Fade, that's not an improvement when facing a templar with a sword. If he's going to die, he'd almost rather they smite him first so he can't see it coming.

Several people have suggested he learn to use a dagger, to surprise templars who expect to find him senseless. Daylen would just as soon not let them get that close in the first place, and besides. Real knife training, the kind that would let him strike quickly at the small gaps in a templar's armor, takes time he'd rather spend learning to avoid being hit with a smite in the first place.

And even when he's lying in the dirt trying to remember how breathing is supposed to work, he would still call it better than it was before. This is a skill he can learn and practice, not a test of his endurance and luck. He doesn't have to just sit there and wait to be hit and hope he can recover fast enough. He can learn this and then master it, the same way he mastered complex spells far above his age when he was a novice: by refusing to quit until he's carved the right steps and the right timing so deeply into his brain that he doesn't have to remember them. Instinct will do it for him.

One nice thing about their practices now is that Daylen is rarely left with more than a mild headache, which elfroot can clear away before he and Alistair have made it back to the fire. Tonight is no different, and when they join the others for supper, Daylen is happy in a way he hasn't been since he was a child. Everything feels right and easy, and while he hasn't forgotten the Blight and Loghain, for once he can set them aside and just enjoy this particular moment. It's an effort to keep himself from beaming at everyone in camp. He's not cheerful by nature, and they'd probably decide he'd finally cracked under the strain.

He accepts a full bowl and an odd look from Sten--all right, maybe he's not doing such a great job of not being cheerful--then goes to sit beside Alistair where he's found them a log to lean against, far enough from the fire to avoid its heat. Daylen props his back against the log and stretches out his legs, mirroring Alistair's pose just in time for Barkspawn to sprawl out on top of their legs, pinning both of them in place.

In his head, Daylen can practically hear her say to them, _"Sit! Stay!"_

Holding his supper out of harm's way, he shoves at her good-naturedly until she shifts off them to wedge herself between their feet instead. Her head rests on the ground between Daylen's and Alistair's knees, close enough to beg for food but far enough Daylen won't shoo her away as an imminent threat. As if everyone in camp doesn't slip her treats when he's not looking.

"You're too big to be a lapdog," he informs her. "And even if you weren't, it's too bloody hot."

She huffs softly at him and closes her eyes in clear disgust at his selfish desire to keep his supper to himself.

Daylen turns his head to share a laugh with Alistair, only to find he's getting an odd look. He's getting a lot of those tonight.

"All right?" he asks. He needs Alistair to stop looking at him so intently, especially when they're sitting so close. At least earlier he was well out of arm's reach, but now they're already close enough their elbows brush. Daylen would only have to lean over to kiss him.

"Yeah," Alistair says slowly. "What about you?"

"Tired," Daylen says with a shrug. Then he smiles. "But definitely all right." So long as he doesn't think about Alistair's mouth.

Alistair nods like he's said something profound and turns back to his food. Puzzled but grateful to have temptation a little further away, Daylen sighs internally and turns back to his own meal.

Across the fire, Zevran and Leliana are engrossed in one of their deep conversations, their heads together and their voices inaudible to anyone more than a foot away. Daylen hasn't learned more than a few words of Orlesian and most of those are obscenities--he can now say "I want to fuck you" in five languages, for whatever good that will do him against an archdemon--but tonight, he doesn't need to know the words to understand what Leliana and Zevran are talking about. The way they're smiling at each other says everything Daylen needs to know. Their body language is so blatant, Daylen would be surprised if even Alistair has missed it.

He feels a brief flare of idle jealousy but lets it go easily. There's been so little for any of them to smile about, and it pleases him to see them happy.

Zevran whispers something into Leliana's ear, his face hidden in her hair. Daylen would pay a sovereign to know what he said, because Leliana gives a breathless laugh that's half amused and half shocked. Her reply is equally a mystery, but Zevran's answering laugh is all delight.

Alistair shifts uncomfortably, his spoon tapping nervously against the edge of his bowl. When Daylen turns enough to give him an enquiring look, his shoulders stiffen, and he says, "Um."

"Um?" Daylen teases.

"Is that really all right with you?" He waves a hand toward Leliana and Zevran, now on their way to Zevran's tent.

The gesture is completely unsubtle, but fortunately, there's no one around to catch it. Sten is stuck with the midnight watch and is already asleep in anticipation of it, Morrigan is off patrolling the camp perimeter in wolf form, and Oghren is determinedly drinking his way through what would be a disturbing amount of ale if Daylen hadn't seen him drink three times as much and remain standing. As ways for dealing with problems go, drinking is low on Daylen's list, but then, setting things on fire is probably low on Zevran's. Daylen is well aware he has no room to sneer at anyone else's solution for a head full of memories they don't want.

And right now, it means no one is paying any attention to Daylen, Alistair, or Alistair's unsubtle gestures.

"Is what all right?" Daylen asks, peering after Zevran and Leliana. Has Alistair been thinking about this since their earlier conversation? He can't possibly think Daylen would be bothered by the idea of other people having sex.

"That." Alistair's gesture this time is even less subtle, perhaps because Leliana and Zevran are now out of sight in the tent. "I mean, I just thought, you and Zevran sometimes seem like you...you know."

"Zevran and I have never you-knowed," Daylen says, trying not to smile at Alistair's verbal flailing. Though when in the Maker's name does he think that Daylen and Zevran were alone long enough to do anything? "Nor are we likely to."

"Never?" Alistair is so shocked Daylen has to look away to keep his smile under control. _"Never?"_

"Is it so hard to believe?"

"Well, yes," Alistair says, exasperated. "The two of you shared a tent until a week ago."

"And we stopped as soon as we got out of the mountains." Having a tent to himself again was one of many reasons Daylen had been glad to see Bodahn and his wagon. "And other than that, when were we alone together?"

Alistair gives this enough thought Daylen can't resist adding, "He was interested in you-knowing with you. You know."

"What!"

Daylen can't hold back his grin any longer. "His first night in camp, he flirted with you for half of it."

"You're joking," Alistair says flatly.

"I swear on Barkspawn," Daylen says solemnly, putting one hand on her head for emphasis. She opens one eye to see if he's going to let her finish his supper for him, then closes it again when he shows her his empty bowl. "Ask Leliana."

Alistair squints at Daylen as if he's still not convinced this isn't a joke, but when Daylen doesn't recant, Alistair looks away, embarrassed. "I didn't notice. I mean, I don't have a lot of experience with...I've never...um...you know...so it's hard-" He hears the double-meaning in that word too late, and his face turns so red Daylen can see it even in the firelight. "Um. It's _difficult_ for me to tell when someone's interested."

In normal circumstances, Daylen might tease him about the blush, but now doesn't seem like the time. He gets control over the grin he's still wearing from Alistair's earlier shock and nudges Alistair with his shoulder. "You don't have to be embarrassed. There's nothing wrong with being inexperienced."

"Yeah, but what about _un_ experienced?" Alistair mutters. "That's a little weird by the time you're my age."

"'My age'?" Daylen echoes incredulously. "What, are you sixty years old, complaining about how your joints hurt?"

Alistair makes an obscene gesture in his direction, ducking his head to hide his smile. "You young'uns these days, no respect for your elders."

"How terrible," Daylen says. He bumps Alistair's should with his own again, and this time, he doesn't straighten afterward, just stays there leaning into Alistair. Ignoring Alistair's attempt to change the subject, he adds, "It's really not that weird."

"Maybe not for normal people, but for a templar or a Grey Warden?" Alistair snorts. "It's weird."

Time for a change in tactics. "Well, so what if it is? If you weren't interested, then you weren't interested."

"It's not that," Alistair says.

He doesn't continue, and he doesn't look like he plans to. Daylen stuffs his curiosity into a box and sits on it. He absolutely will not take advantage of this to fish for more information about what, exactly, Alistair is interested in.

Alistair sighs as though Daylen had lost the fight with his curiosity. His voice is gloomy as he says, "Sometimes I was interested, it just never went anywhere. They always wanted something different than I did."

"Oh?" Daylen's curiosity asks before Daylen can stop it.

"I wanted it to be special," Alistair mutters to his hands. When Daylen doesn't immediately respond, he adds, "Go ahead, you might as well say it."

"Say it?"

"Whatever you're thinking. Everyone else teases me about it, you might as well, too."

"I'm not going to tease you about it." Daylen is a little offended Alistair thinks he would when it's clearly a sore subject, but all he says is, "I mean, sex is fun, but that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with not doing it."

That gets Alistair to raise his head a little. With the fire so close, his face and the question on it are clearly illuminated until he looks back at his hands.

"Yes," Daylen says, smiling so Alistair can hear it. "It wasn't all bad. There were good times, too."

 _"Let me show you,"_ he thinks about saying, and it hurts to swallow the words back. _"It'll be special, I promise."_ His skin burns all down his side where he's touching Alistair, like it won't stop burning until he has Alistair naked under him.

And it's not just his body that wants. He's always scoffed at songs about souls and hearts and other words bards used to pretty up sex into something other than fucking. He owes those bards an apology, because now he understands. When his memories aren't twisting him around, there isn't a single part of him that doesn't want Alistair. He wants the feel of Alistair's skin, yes, but also his smile, his ridiculous jokes at inappropriate moments, the food he brings when he thinks Daylen isn't eating enough, the sticks he throws for Barkspawn, and his silence as he listens with everything he has.

In his imaginary conversation with Alistair, Daylen says, _"And since we're talking about whether you're interested in sex, let's talk about whether you're interested in men. Because I really can't tell, and I'd like to know before I try to kiss you."_

Out loud, what he says is, "A bunch of adolescent mages can come up with a lot of ideas when they start giggling after lights-out."

Alistair slants him another sideways look, measuring him and his words.

"Mind you," Daylen says, trying to keep his focus on the real conversation rather than the one that exists only in his head, "that doesn't mean they were all _good_ ideas. Even some of the good ones turned out to only be good in moderation." Those tiny bolts of lightning, for instance.

It makes Alistair smile, which is what Daylen wanted, but nothing in his body language gives a hint as to how he'd react if Daylen tried to kiss him. Which is maybe an answer all on its own, if they can have a conversation like this without at least a small sign Alistair is interested.

Better for Daylen to quit before he gets himself into trouble. "It's been a long day," he says, gathering himself to stand but waiting to do so until Alistair straightens from leaning against him. "And I've got the early morning watch, so I'd better get some sleep while I can. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Alistair echoes, turning a thoughtful frown on the fire.

Later, in his tent and naked on his bedroll, Daylen thinks about all the things he could have said or done, if he'd been sure Alistair wanted it. Wanted him.

In that alternate reality, he touches Alistair's lips with his fingers and traces the curve of them until they part, straddles Alistair's thighs to whisper in his ear, _"Let me show you,"_ kisses him until he's moaning and then presses him to the ground to kiss him some more. Alistair's hair is soft and warm between his fingers, Alistair's cock is hard and hot against his thigh, and Alistair's voice cracks as he begs for more, please more. Daylen kisses down the length of his body--throat, chest, stomach--until he reaches Alistair's cock and takes it into his mouth and listens to Alistair gasp out his name.

If Daylen dreams that night, he doesn't remember it, but that fantasy flashes briefly through his mind when Alistair joins him at the fire the next morning. They haven't even finished breaking camp before he has a headache from trying to simultaneously keep Barkspawn away from his breakfast and his mind away from thoughts of Alistair naked. The Maker's punishment, Daylen supposes, as if he cares about Him or His punishments.

Though Daylen will admit that he probably deserves this one.


	11. Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhh, Redcliffe. How much of a pain in my ass you were this time around.
> 
> Most important note first, which is a content warning for suicidal thoughts (sort of). You'll understand the "sort of" when you get there, but I couldn't think of a tag that covered this situation, so you get this paragraph instead. If anyone knows of a tag that would fit, let me know.
> 
> Moving on to less important and more rambly notes. I have no idea what happens in canon if you show up at Redcliffe and already have the ashes (apparently it is actually possible), so I also have no idea when you hand them over. Which mostly just means this chapter fits with the rest of the story: from here on out, I'm playing with the exact timing of a lot of things.
> 
> When I started this story, I planned to write a nuanced Isolde, I really did. Then I started to write this chapter, and since I haven't played the game in years, I decided to watch some YouTube videos of the first time you meet her. The dialogue in that part of this chapter is almost entirely from the game, and...well...nuance went out the window right quick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thank you to Ginipig for helping me get this chapter in order!!!

They reach Redcliffe a few days later, and Daylen wonders what his life has become that an army of undead is an annoyance rather than a horror. They're between him and Arl Eamon, but more importantly, they're between him and a long conversation with Alistair about the little secret Alistair has been keeping for months, that he waited to drop on Daylen until they were nearly to the village. Daylen looks at the corpses shambling out of the burning darkness, and all he can think is a resentful, _If you'd stayed properly dead, I could be having this out with Alistair bloody **Theirin** right now._

Since they didn't have the decency to stay in their graves, Daylen deals with them the way he deals with many things these days: setting them on fire and making them explode. When the corpses in the village have been burned and slashed beyond all hope of rising again, Daylen is further annoyed to find out the castle is similarly infested. It's not a good mood in which to meet Isolde for the first time.

She seems similarly unimpressed as she looks him up and down, her lip curled in a sneer. "Who is this... _man_ , Teagan?"

Daylen wonders what word she considered using for him but doesn't much care about the good opinion of someone who would abandon a child and demand that others do the same. He meets her sneer for sneer.

Behind him, Alistair sighs and says tonelessly, "You remember me, Lady Isolde, don't you?"

"Alistair!" she says, as if she's just noticed him. Perhaps she has. Daylen will grant she has other things on her mind, and Alistair has been half-hidden behind him.

He's not prepared to grant her anything else, not when she adds a derisive snort and scornful, "Why are _you_ here?"

Daylen's anger usually burns hot, but now, it crystallizes into something cold and sharp. Clear-headed, he considers all the ways in which he could kill her, and he feels not so much as a drop of guilt for it. The only thing that saves her is the presence of witnesses, but she won't have that protection forever.

Maybe some of that shows on his face, because she steps away from him and tries to avoid addressing him directly after that. She focuses her efforts on Teagan, whining and pleading for him to return with her to the castle alone. The whole thing reeks of a trap so strongly Daylen's nose wrinkles, but Isolde continues to press, and Teagan gives in like a fool despite Daylen's protests.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ Daylen rages silently as he watches the man stride off toward the castle, alone except for Isolde. The only smart thing the man has done since she appeared is to tell them how to enter the castle in secret.

He clenches his hand around the ring and uses that small pain to help him put aside his anger and contempt. Later. Depending on the situation in the castle, he might not need to do anything at all about Isolde. Battles are dangerous, especially for those without training or protection, and she'll likely be in the thick of it.

"Demons," he mutters, and hears at least a few of the others sigh agreement. Darkspawn, werewolves, mad elves, mad dwarves, mad humans, and walking corpses weren't enough, apparently. He has to fight a demon this side of the Fade as well. And a powerful one, if it's done all this.

"Weren't these treaties supposed to make things easy?" Daylen asks of no one in particular.

"Maybe they have," Alistair points out. He's trying for cheerful, but the tightness around his eyes betrays him. He looked more comfortable facing the corpses than he did Isolde, and none of the tension left him when she did.

"That's not terribly comforting," Daylen says.

Alistair's halfhearted smile fades too quickly, melting into a pensive frown as he steps around Daylen to stand at the cliff's edge and stare at the town far below them. "I hate this," he says, so quietly Daylen is the only one close enough to hear.

"I know," Daylen says, "but we'll deal with it. We've dealt with worse."

"We have, but..." Alistair shakes his head. "We'll stop it, but we can't fix it."

Since the same could be said of nearly everything they've done since Ostagar, Daylen shoots him a quizzical look. It isn't like Alistair to brood over the past.

"I missed Redcliffe so much," Alistair says softly. "When I was with the templars, of course, but even once I joined the Wardens, sometimes I still wanted to come back. There were maybe some parts of growing up here that weren't great, but mostly I was happy. Really happy."

Daylen isn't sure what to say to that; he's too busy trying not to voice his opinion of those parts of Alistair's childhood that Alistair calls not great and Daylen would call cruel and neglectful.

"When we looked at the treaties and I realized we would need to see Eamon, part of me was excited." His gaze roams over the village, with its burned-out buildings and broken corpses. "I was looking forward to coming home, even if it was just for a little while."

Unsure what else to do, Daylen puts a hand on Alistair's shoulder, shaking it gently to be sure Alistair can feel it through his armor.

Alistair glances at him and gives an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, I don't know why I'm rambling on about this. We've both seen a lot worse."

"It's different when it's your home." Daylen tries not to let the end of the sentence tilt up into a question. The concept of home--of a place and people he would be eager to return to--is something he only understands in the abstract. He lived at Kinloch Hold, but it wasn't his home, and certainly none of the places he's been since leaving it are anywhere he wants to see again. What would it be like to have so many good memories of a place that it became an anchor to hold him steady through places like the Deep Roads?

And what would it be like to lose that anchor when he needed it most?

Better not to have it in the first place. At least then its disappearance wouldn't leave him off balance.

"When I was sixteen," Alistair says, looking out over the village again, "one of the other recruits, a friend of mine, died in a training accident. Just stupid bad luck, the kind of thing that happens every once in a while, but...it was pretty ugly."

Daylen doesn't press for details, though he's cynically curious whether the accident was something the templars could have prevented with a little extra care.

"I wasn't there when it happened," Alistair says, "and I wanted to say goodbye. I don't know why it was so important to me that I say goodbye in person, it's not like he would know the difference, but it was."

Unsure where this is going, Daylen limits himself to a nod of understanding.

"Of course they weren't stupid, and they wouldn't let any of us recruits get near his body, so I snuck in at night when no one was around." He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "And now whenever I think of him, _that's_ what I remember. I can't remember the good parts without thinking about how he looked the last time I saw him."

Ah. "Better to have not come home at all?" Daylen asks sympathetically.

"Yeah, and that's stupid." Alistair's smile is painful to look at. "I know it would have been so much worse if we hadn't been here, and I know they'll rebuild. And this is still my home, but..." He shrugs and gestures at the town. "That's what I'm going to remember from now on, whenever I think of Redcliffe."

"I'm sorry we didn't come here first," Daylen says. "After we left Lothering." They would have, too, if he hadn't felt like he had to prove something by going anywhere except where Alistair suggested. The knowledge burns in his stomach like acid, that his pettiness is partly responsible for the ache in Alistair's voice.

But Alistair shakes his head. "It would have been worse if we had."

"What?" Daylen asks, surprised.

"If we'd come straight here from Lothering, Loghain wouldn't have even been back in Denerim yet," Alistair says. "We'd have been and gone before he could start on this plan, so we wouldn't have been able to keep any of this from happening, and coming here first would mean we'd still be at least a couple weeks from getting back here now. So they’d have had more weeks of fighting these things without us."

There are a lot of other factors Alistair isn't taking into account, but Daylen is selfish enough not to point any of them out. Easier to put his arm around Alistair's shoulders in a brief, one-armed hug.

"Ugh, sorry, I'll stop whining," Alistair says. "We should get moving." Despite the words, his arm curls around Daylen's shoulders.

"Grieving isn't the same as whining," Daylen says. He knows that much, even if he doesn't understand what it's like to love a place so strongly.

Alistair's eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and he blows out a sharp breath. Then he releases Daylen and steps back, ducking his head to put his helmet back on. "Come on," he says, his cheerful tone not in the least bit convincing. "Let's go do something about that demon. They're like mice, you know. If you don't deal with it when there's just the one, soon they'll be everywhere."

"Right," Daylen says. "I'd hate to see a cat big enough to deal with that." The joking is habit more than amusement, but it's something to take his mind off the memory of the tears he saw in Alistair's eyes for just a moment.

###

When they come face to face with Jowan in Redcliffe's dungeons, all Daylen feels is a faint surprise. He's had too many shocks in the last year, and meeting an old friend in an unexpected place is nothing after Zathrian, Branka, and Kolgrim's "Andraste."

The most startling part of the whole conversation is the way Jowan senses Alistair's power and flinches away from him, wary to the edge of fear. Watching Jowan, Daylen remembers feeling much the same when he first met Alistair, and it makes him want to laugh, even here. He wishes he could share the joke with Alistair, who's definitely in need of one, but he suspects amusement wouldn't be Alistair's reaction at finding out Daylen was once afraid of him.

The rest of Redcliffe castle isn't even as startling as Jowan. Daylen would never call a fight with a revenant boring, but it's also not as out of the ordinary as he wishes it was. Not for him and not these days, never mind that he'd barely heard of revenants before he left the Circle. One thing he can say in Kinloch Hold's favor: it wasn't full of demonic undead.

When the creature is truly dead, Daylen nudges the body with the toe of his boot and says silently to it, _"If I have to fight a hundred of you, I'd still rather be a Grey Warden than a Circle mage."_

He keeps his hand firmly over the cut on his arm as he thinks it, though, because he'd also rather be alive than dead.

After that, it doesn't take them long to reach the main hall. Watching Connor's demon toy with the soldiers and Teagan is nauseating, and Daylen feels a tiny sliver of sympathy for Isolde, quickly suppressed. She deserves whatever the demon wants to do to her, and Daylen would let it have her if he could think of a way to do it that didn't leave others in danger, too. Such as Connor, because unlike Isolde, Daylen isn't going to leave a child to suffer for their parents' sins.

And then the solution appears, as if the Maker decided to answer this one prayer: a way for Daylen to have his revenge and keep everyone else safe at the same time. Isolde will be dead, and Eamon can find out what it's like to be alone and without the person he loves. Daylen distrusts blood magic on principle, but for this? For this he'll bend those principles to the breaking point and beyond.

He makes the mistake of looking at Alistair while he's contemplating Isolde's death, and his cold calculation shatters irretrievably. Alistair's expression isn't that of a man about to get revenge on someone who tormented him for years; it's that of a man watching a mother prepare to die for her son.

Which is exactly what Isolde is doing.

The room is a babble of voices, most of them agitated and one of them grating on Daylen's nerves more with every word, and he feels for a moment as if the sound is smothering him. How is he supposed to make any kind of decision with all this noise? He had a plan until Alistair ruined it, but now he needs to actually think about what he's going to do, and he can't do that with everyone talking at him at once.

Daylen has spent the last year learning to make himself heard over the sounds of a fight, people screaming and shields slamming together and magic-driven winds roaring in his ears. Projecting his voice over the noise in this room is easy.

"Enough," he barks. "Everyone stop!"

And a little to his surprise, they do. Even Isolde, though he suspects that will only last until she gets over the shock of anyone speaking to her like that.

"I need to think," he says more quietly. He doesn't say that he needs time to find a solution that allows him to sacrifice Isolde without upsetting Alistair. "Morrigan, strengthen the spell on Connor. Sten, Oghren, take a look around and make sure there aren't any corpses still wandering around. The rest of you..." He gropes for a polite way to say, _"leave me alone,"_ but the best he can think of is, "...give me a moment."

Isolde opens her mouth, and her outraged expression doesn't bode well for either of them. He's barely keeping his anger at her in check as it is, and it won't take much before he says a lot of things that will upset a lot of people.

Leliana slides smoothly between Daylen and Isolde and murmurs something to Isolde in Orlesian, her tone sympathetic. Isolde hesitates, torn between her anger at Daylen and her need to whine to someone willing to listen, then allows Leliana to draw her aside.

Daylen's own words to Alistair drift through his head. _"Grieving isn't the same as whining."_ He does his best to ignore them as he retreats to the nearest window so he can think without having to look at anyone.

Alistair, unfortunately, stays at his elbow. "You can't really be thinking about using blood magic. About letting her die!"

"I'm thinking about anything that will let me keep as many people alive as possible," Daylen snaps.

"Then we can go to the Circle." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Alistair looks guilty, but he doesn't back down. "I'm sorry, I know you don't want to-"

"That's at least four days," Daylen interrupts, struggling to hold on to his temper. "Probably five. Are we supposed to just leave and hope the demon doesn't kill too many people while we're gone?"

"You've already put Connor to sleep, why can't he stay that way until we get back?"

"What happens if the spell gives out before then?" Daylen asks. "I don't know how long I can make it last, since I usually only need someone to stay asleep long enough for you or Zevran to stab them." His sarcasm is running away with him, and he tries to get it under control, too. Between that and his temper, his mental hands are getting full, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep hold of either. "If the spell fails, the demon won't wait for us."

"There has to be a way to save him." Alistair's hands are opening and closing at his sides, the knuckles turning white each time they clench into fists. "We can't just kill him, he's a _child_!"

"I won't," Daylen says, softening his tone as much as he can. On this, at least, he and Alistair are in complete agreement. "Believe me, I'll do everything I can to keep him safe."

His sincerity must come through, because Alistair relaxes a little. "I know you will," he says apologetically. "I hate not being able to do anything, and it's making me crazy, but I know you wouldn't let him die if there was any other way."

Thank the Maker he doesn't ask how hard Daylen will work to keep Isolde alive.

They stand in awkward silence, not quite looking at each other, until Alistair asks, "Would the spell fail before we got back?"

"It's possible," Daylen hedges. Because anything is possible. This specific thing just isn't very likely: it's a simple spell Daylen has cast hundreds of times and that Jowan could easily sustain until they return. The spell isn't the problem.

He turns away from Alistair to stare out the window, but that doesn't help. The memory of Alistair's face as he stared at the wreckage of his home isn't something Daylen can escape by simply looking somewhere else. Daylen might not know what it's like to have a place like that, but he doesn't need to, not when everything he needs to know was written across Alistair's face.

For himself, Daylen would let Isolde die rather than go back to Kinloch Hold one instant sooner than he has to. For Alistair...

For Alistair, he'd do most anything.

Daylen draws in a slow, silent breath, and as he exhales, he lets go of his last hopes that he might be able to find another solution. Then he straightens his shoulders and turns back to face the room.

Every eye immediately focuses on him, and the weight of all those stares is disconcerting even after everything Daylen has been through. Usually when anyone looks at him so intently, someone will be bleeding very soon.

"We'll go to the Circle," he says coolly, as if he didn't almost recoil from the combined force of their gazes. "That's our best option."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Alistair smile at him, relieved and grateful that Daylen is doing everything possible to spare the life of a woman Alistair should hate.

 _"You're a better person than any of us deserve,"_ Daylen wants to say, but the only two people who need to hear it--Isolde and Alistair himself--wouldn't believe him.

"You," he says instead, pinning Jowan with a look. They might have been friends once, but Daylen isn't feeling very friendly after fighting that many undead and with a demon still to deal with. "You know how to keep that spell going?"

Jowan nods, eyes wide.

"Good. Keep him asleep until we're back." He catches Jowan's gaze and holds it. "Because you _will_ be here when we get back."

Jowan gulps and nods again.

Daylen gives him a curt nod in return, then turns away to look for the last person in this room he wants to talk to.

From her place beside Leliana, Isolde glowers at him. She has the look of someone who's been having imaginary conversations and collecting the sharpest insults to use as soon as the opportunity presents itself. It's a look Daylen knows well, just as he knows how infuriating it is to be cut off before he's even started.

Petty as it is, he gets a small measure of spiteful pleasure out of talking over whatever biting remark she's opening her mouth to deliver. Any compassion he might feel for her is drowned out by the litany of _no no no no no_ at the thought of going back to Kinloch Hold.

"Here," he says. He pulls out the pouch that holds the ashes from the Urn and takes out a careful pinch to give her. "I need a bowl."

There's a confused bustle in the room, but someone finally produces a goblet for him to put the ashes into. "From the Urn of Sacred Ashes," he says. He makes sure to hold her gaze, his face absolutely blank, as he adds, "I assume you know what to do with them and didn't just send all those knights out to die for no reason."

In the stunned silence that follows, he catches his companions' eyes and gathers up his party without bothering to gesture.

"Come on," he says. "I'd rather camp on the road than sleep here."

Let the others think that's a comment on the demons and the corpses. Zevran's arched eyebrow says that at least one person knows better. Daylen gives him a tight smile in return before heading for the door.

This time, they leave Bodahn and Sandal at the village, but Daylen keeps Barkspawn with him. If something happens that's bad enough to overrun Redcliffe, Barkspawn won't be able to make a difference to Bodahn's safety. Where she can make a difference is with Daylen; he's not sure he can force himself to walk into Kinloch Hold without both her and Alistair beside him.

Their afternoon departure from Redcliffe means they only make a few miles of progress before they have to stop for the night. If Daylen were by himself, he could use magic to keep his body going long into the night, but he's never tried that particular trick on anyone except himself. Given his limited skill at healing, at best it would be unpleasant for the others, and there's a small chance he might even hurt them. He could tell them it was an option and let them choose, but dread fills him every time he thinks of Kinloch Hold, so he keeps his mouth shut and works on collecting firewood instead.

When the tents are up and the fire started, he drags Alistair off to practice, Morrigan following in their wake. It will do nothing for his mood, but it will wear him out, and he needs that tonight. Pity for Isolde sits uncomfortably with his anger, and he wants to think about anything except where they've come from and where they're going.

He also needs to talk to Alistair alone, and this is his best opportunity, Morrigan or no Morrigan. She won't linger in Alistair's company once their practice is finished, and Daylen will eat a cold and congealed supper if it means he and Alistair can talk in private before returning to the fire.

To his relief, it doesn't come to that: it isn't even dark yet when Morrigan declares herself finished for the evening. With supper not quite ready, Daylen can plausibly--and honestly--tell her he's going to practice a little longer. Because he does intend to do that.

He just has to talk to Alistair first.

Once Morrigan is out of earshot and Alistair has finished taking a drink of water, Daylen says pointedly, "Alistair Theirin, huh?"

Alistair winces. "Sorry. I wanted to tell you."

"So why didn't you?"

The answering silence is uncomfortable to say the least. Daylen sips water and waits it out.

"All right, that's a lie," Alistair says finally. He's sitting cross-legged beside Daylen, his elbows on his knees, and his face now buried in his hands. "I _didn't_ want to tell you. I knew I should, I swore to myself I'd tell you before we got to Redcliffe, but then there wasn't ever a good time." After a moment, he adds, a little defensively, "And I thought we'd go to Redcliffe first."

Daylen can think of several times Alistair could have brought this up, but he waves that mentally aside as irrelevant now. "Why didn't you want to tell me?"

"Because I don't want to be Maric's bastard!" Alistair says. "It wasn't so bad when Cailan was alive, but now? Now I'm Maric the fucking Savior's last living descendant."

"So you don't want to be king?"

"Maker, no!" By the tone of his voice, Daylen might as well have asked if he wants to go back down into the Deep Roads. "I'd be a terrible king."

"I doubt it," Daylen says.

Alistair tenses. "No, really, I would."

"No, really, you wouldn't," Daylen says. "But if you don't want to be king, then don't be king. Because if you don't want to do it, then yes, you would be terrible."

"It's not that easy."

"Why isn't it?"

"Someone's got to do it," Alistair says gloomily. "And I know Eamon will want it to be me." His shoulders slump. "Assuming he survives."

 _"Then join me in wishing Eamon dead,"_ Daylen wants to say. _"It's a lot of fun. I can tell you all the ways I've already imagined him dying, and then you can come up with some more."_

He's not stupid or callous enough to say that aloud, though. "Someone's got to do it," he agrees, "but why does that someone have to be you?"

"Because Eamon-"

"Fuck Eamon." Daylen is proud of himself for keeping his tone light. "What do you want?"

Alistair lifts his head from his hands just enough to give Daylen a sideways look. "To be a Grey Warden."

"Good news!" Daylen says. "You're a Grey Warden!"

"Fuck you," Alistair mutters, but when he takes his hands completely away from his face, Daylen can see the smile he's trying to hide. "You know what I mean."

"I don't," Daylen says, deliberately obtuse. "Why do you have to be king? Are you the only person in the entire country who can do it? Is Maric's bloodline really that important?"

"No, of course not," Alistair says.

"Well then."

Alistair shoves him, and Daylen moves with it, letting himself flop over onto his back in the grass. The dirt is marginally cooler than the air, and lying down quiets the low-level headache throbbing behind his eyes. He stretches out his arms to put as much of himself as possible in contact with the ground, ignoring the grass stems itching at his bare arms and back.

"I thought you'd want me to be king," Alistair says.

"I don't think it much matters what I want." Daylen pokes him in the thigh with one bare toe. "Is that why you didn't tell me? Because you thought I'd push for it?"

"Yeah," Alistair mutters.

A little part of Daylen is hurt that Alistair would think so little of him, but mostly he's amazed that Alistair managed to keep a secret for so many months. Daylen wouldn't have thought him capable of hiding anything, much less something like this. Still...

"Do I usually push you into things you don't want?"

Alistair is silent for so long Daylen begins to wonder if he's fallen asleep or snuck away. Just as Daylen gathers himself to sit up and make sure everything is all right, Alistair says, "No. You don't."

Daylen has the oddest feeling that he's missed something in this conversation. While he's trying to figure out what that might be, Alistair says weakly, "I would have told you if you asked."

That's so ridiculous Daylen laughs. "Because I might spontaneously say, 'Alistair, by the way, do you happen to be King Maric's bastard?'"

"You might," Alistair says. With a sigh, he crawls around Daylen to lie down in the grass, his head next to Daylen's and his feet stretched out in the opposite direction. "But no, I didn't think you would."

"Counting on that?"

"Yeah." He sounds rueful. "Yeah, I was."

Daylen smiles at the stars overhead and listens to Alistair settling himself more comfortably. His head is perfectly positioned for Daylen to rest the side of his own against it, their temples touching.

If Barkspawn finishes "helping" Sten with his practice drills and finds them like this, she's going to lick both of them to death. When he says as much aloud, Alistair laughs. "Does that mean we should go back to practicing?"

Daylen doesn't want to go back to practicing. He wants to stay here, where the summer heat is less oppressive and the heat of Alistair's body is a tangible presence against his skin. He wants to roll up onto hands and knees so they're face to face, with Alistair beneath him, close enough to kiss.

He wants to know what Alistair wants.

And he wants to have that conversation when they aren't headed to Kinloch Hold.

With a sigh, he sits up. "You're right," he says, flicking Alistair lightly on the top of one ear. "We really should be practicing."

###

Daylen isn't surprised he sleeps poorly that night. He's seen much worse than the walking corpses at Redcliffe, but that doesn't mean the sight of them didn't burrow into his mind. Asleep, he can't hide behind rage, and that leaves him nothing to fend off the kind of terror that only seems to exist in dreams.

What is surprising is the almost total lack of templars in any of it. Instead, the fear and the horror he denied during the day creep out in a dozen different nightmares that don't feel like nightmares at all, except for the dread that fills him in each one. It must be what nightmares are like for people who didn't grow up in a Circle, and he's not sure they're any better. Dreams that don't include templars holding him down are welcome, but not if that means he trades them for dreams of being terrified by mundane tasks.

At least it makes sense to be afraid of templars. What is there to fear in washing dishes, even if it will never be his favorite camp chore?

That sense of foreboding clings to him even after he wakes, and it grows stronger with every step toward Kinloch Hold. He doesn't want to be here, he doesn't want to be doing this, and the fact that he is for a woman he loathes does nothing for his temper. His one attempt to think of it instead as doing it for Alistair only makes him angry at Alistair, too, so he goes back to blaming Isolde. At least that way he doesn't have to feel guilty on top of everything else.

There are still no templars in his dreams that night, but his waking mind makes up for it by thinking of nothing else from the moment his eyes open in the morning. Everything is overlaid with a hundred memories he was just as happy to leave in dark and forgotten corners of his mind, but like Redcliffe's dead, none of it wants to stay buried. He longs for a way to burn away his memories the way he burned those walking corpses, but that's impossible. All he can do is grit his teeth and try not to let his rage overflow onto any of his companions.

In his time at Kinloch Hold, Daylen saw a handful of mages submit willingly to the Rite of Tranquility. The idea of surrendering to anyone, let alone to the templars, makes his fists clench now as much as it ever has, but a very small part of him thinks wistfully of being done with fear and rage forever. He used to think that escaping Kinloch Hold would be enough, but he's coming to realize that simply walking out its doors meant nothing. He'll never really escape it, any more than he or Alistair will escape the Deep Roads. He can look forward to pain and madness, and backward to pain and humiliation, and in between, he has…what?

His gaze drops to Barkspawn trotting happily beside him, and it tries to drift from her to Alistair before he stops it. He has them now, yes, but sooner or later, either he'll lose them, or they'll lose him. Given what they're facing, it will probably be sooner.

 _I have them for now,_ he points out to the cold voice in his head.

 _Exactly how long do you expect "now" to last?_ it asks, and he doesn't have a good answer. He just talks himself in circles until he's dizzy, getting exactly nowhere with his internal debate. Physically, he keeps walking forward, one foot in front of the other, the memory and the reality of Kinloch Hold looming larger with every step.

Mundane practicalities give him a temporary reprieve when they finally reach the Lake Calenhad docks. The upheaval everywhere means the Spoiled Princess currently has no guests at all, which lets Daylen rent every one of its rooms. He needs a place by himself tonight, and he's not going to make the others double up when he isn't doing the same. It's not as if coin is a problem these days. Unless Daylen has to hire a mercenary army to deal with the Blight, he can't imagine ever spending all the money he's somehow managed to acquire by accident.

Thinking about that unsought wealth is better than thinking about Kinloch Hold and about whether they should cross to the tower now or tomorrow morning. His desire to postpone the inevitable as long as possible fights with his desire to be done and gone from here forever. The fact that rumor was correct--for once--and there really is a mysterious problem keeping the tower closed to outsiders doesn't help him decide. Is it better to get the surprise out of the way, or to get one last night of sleep before he has yet more memories to keep him awake?

What tips the balance toward waiting for morning is another mundane consideration: when they arrive at Kinloch Hold, they need to look as impressive as possible. If they can be actually intimidating, so much the better. Anything to counter the disadvantage that comes of being a mage trying to negotiate with templars. A night at the inn will give them time to clean themselves, their armor, and their weapons, so they don't look as ragged and travel-worn as Daylen feels. He hasn't forgotten the sideways glances they received from the refugees they passed on their way south.

Unlike those of their party with armor and weapons, Daylen has very little to prepare beyond checking his robes for stains, and that doesn't take long. He almost never wears his robes while travelling unless the area is particularly dangerous--there's no need to announce himself as a mage to everyone they pass--but he continues to run his hands over them long after he's cleaned away the few stains. The magic woven into the fabric sings to him, a soothing reminder that he has more power now than he would have dreamed possible while he was a prisoner here.

Now if he could just stop thinking about what will happen if the templars refuse to acknowledge that power. Daylen is ten times the mage he was when he left, but there are a lot of templars in the tower, and Daylen can't fight all of them. They'll take him and Morrigan prisoner, and then the others will die unless they surrender.

Alistair, of course, never would, and Barkspawn likely wouldn't either.

 _Stop,_ he orders himself, and he imagines the tone he would use on Barkspawn if she was charging someone he didn't want her to attack. Panicking solves nothing. What he needs is a plan.

It doesn't take him long to come up with one. He hates it, but it's better than nothing.

Then he forces himself to focus on getting ready for tomorrow morning. He shaves with studied care and, after a critical once-over in a cracked and spotted mirror, borrows a pair of scissors from Leliana. She's been right all along about his hair, and he can't pretend anymore that simply tying it back disguises the fact that he hasn't cut it since Ostagar. He doesn't have the patience for finesse, not even if Leliana is the one doing it, so he cuts it brutally short, shorter even than Alistair normally keeps his. It's so short all his companions blink at him in surprise when he meets them in the common room for supper.

Conversation is strained, and they all retreat to their rooms early. Daylen hopes the others are able to sleep, but for himself, he looks at the bed in his room and just sees one more trial he has to survive. Does it matter if he lies down to stare at the ceiling or spends the night pacing? Whichever he chooses, he won't sleep, and all his attempts to grab any small advantage will be for nothing. He'll look haggard and he'll feel worse, and he'll be dull-witted when he needs to be quicker than he's ever been.

He sighs and closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. There is a third option, but it requires a favor from someone else, and he hates being in anyone's debt. Tomorrow, he'll put himself so deep in Zevran's debt he'll never get out from under it, and he doesn't want to owe someone else, too, even for something as small as this. If there was another choice, or if tomorrow's negotiations weren't crucial...

But there isn't, and they are.

Morrigan answers her door quickly enough that he doesn't have to worry he's pulled her from her bed. "Daylen?" she asks, her eyebrows rising.

Their relationship isn't as antagonistic as it was when they first met, Daylen reminds himself. On a good day, he might even call them friends. She's not as harsh as she was, and, if he's honest, he isn't as quick to anger. Still, she isn't the first person he would ask for help if he had a choice, and she would say the same of him.

No wonder she's startled to find him in her doorway when he said an hour ago he was going to bed.

"I need a favor," he says. He keeps his voice level and his jaw unclenched.

"Of course," she says immediately. By her expression, she's as surprised as he is by that ready agreement.

"I need..." The words stick in his throat, and he has to swallow hard to break them free. "I need you to help me sleep."

"Oh," she says. She studies him, and he thinks for a moment she's going to say something caustic, but she just shakes her head once, as if to clear it. "Lead the way, then."

Back in his room, he lies on the bed, fully dressed except for his boots. He's stripped naked in front of Morrigan more times than he can count, but tonight, alone in this room with Kinloch Hold so close, he can't let himself be that vulnerable.

She says nothing as she places cool fingertips against his forehead. Magic gathers around them, and he tenses involuntarily, fighting the urge to push her spell away as it wraps around him. As sleep is dragging him down, he thinks maybe he sees her neutral expression crack into a worried frown, but his eyes are closing no matter how he tries, and he can't be sure.

The next time he opens them, it's morning.

Morrigan is her usual self over breakfast, no sign of any worried frowns as she argues with Alistair over the last chunk of bread on the table. Daylen tries to settle the argument by pushing his own breakfast in Alistair's direction--the thought of food makes him ill right now--but Alistair scowls and pushes it right back. In that moment of inattention, Morrigan claims the bread and begins to eat it with a smug smile, so Daylen supposes he did settle the argument after all.

When he's choked down as much food as he can and slipped the rest to Barkspawn to keep Alistair from worrying, Daylen gets to his feet and waves the others toward the door. He makes no move to follow, though, and he calls Zevran's name to keep him back, too.

Alistair hesitates at that and gives Daylen a questioning look.

"Go on," Daylen tells him, "I'll be right behind you." He tries out a reassuring smile, but Alistair doesn't look reassured.

He does, however, follow the others outside, leaving Daylen and Zevran alone in the common room. The room is filled for a moment with brilliant sunshine and the sound of the others' mostly-friendly bickering, then the door swings shut, cutting off both the sound and the light.

Alone or not, Daylen steps close to Zevran and lowers his voice. "There's a chance the templars won't honor the treaty."

Zevran's head cocks to one side as he tries to figure out why Daylen would want to speak to him in private about something they all know. "If they refuse us," he says slowly, as if he's feeling his way, "then we plan without them and hope it will suffice against the darkspawn."

"Yes," Daylen says. "Assuming they let me leave."

"Do you have reason to suspect they won't?"

"Other than twenty years in the Circle?" Daylen asks in a tone he hopes sounds dry rather than angry. He's not angry at Zevran, and it's not fair to snap at him. "No reason at all."

"Ah." Zevran starts to say something else, then subsides, waiting.

"We can't fight every templar in that tower," Daylen says. "If they decide they should never have let me leave the first time, there's nothing we can do about it."

He half expects to be interrupted with false reassurances, but Zevran doesn't say anything. His chin dips in a shallow nod, and then he simply continues to wait, studying Daylen's face.

"I never want to live in a Circle again," Daylen says. He meets Zevran's eyes and holds them. "Any more than I wanted Leliana captured by the darkspawn when we were down in the Deep Roads."

Zevran goes very still. He's clearly thinking, but Daylen doesn't know if he's trying to understand why Daylen is bringing that up now, or trying to decide how to answer the oblique request.

 _Please, Maker,_ Daylen prays as the silence stretches out, _please let him understand._ He isn't sure he can say it plainly.

When Zevran finally answers, it's not in words. He cups Daylen's face in his hands and pulls it low enough to press a gentle kiss to the center of his forehead.

"I'm so sorry," Daylen whispers, and he hates the way his voice cracks, but he needs to say this part, too. "I'm so sorry I'm putting this on you, and I...I'll do it myself if I have the chance, but they might not give me one, and I _can't_ -"

"Shhh." Zevran kisses his forehead again, and Daylen wonders if it's deliberate that both times, he's kissed the place where Tranquil are branded. "I know. Now breathe."

He inhales as if to demonstrate, and Daylen mirrors him without thinking, letting the air fill his lungs until he almost coughs, then letting it back out.

"Thank you." Daylen's voice is steadier, almost controlled. "If everything goes to shit, I'll try to put Barkspawn and Alistair to sleep, but I can't do that if I have to protect myself, too. The spells are too different, I can't do them at the same time."

Zevran sighs and brings their foreheads together. "My best is all I can promise."

"I know. That's all I want." Daylen already feels calmer, more in control. He's made dozens of plans for today, trying to be ready for whatever they find when they step off the ferry, knowing it's inevitable that at least one plan will fail. He wants to see the Warden treaty honored and the mages ready to fight for Ferelden, but realistically, he might have to settle for some smaller victory, and he has to be ready to grab whatever he can get. Plans within plans, each less ambitious than the one before, and this at the end of everything: save his friends, and save himself, in whatever way he can.

He inhales again, without Zevran's guidance this time, and shoves everything into a box in his head, shutting away fear and hope and rage and love all together in a tangled mess he can't unravel. A problem for later, if later happens.

Right now, he has other things to do.


	12. I'm Shaking, But I Can Still Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few chapters are actually some of the first I wrote, and I'd forgotten how freakishly long they are. The chapter count is probably going to fluctuate a bit as I work my way through, but for those who are curious, we're a little shy of the halfway mark if I measure by word count rather than number of chapters.
> 
> Also, if the fact that this is Kinloch Hold wasn't a big hint, a warning that this chapter touches a little more on the templars' abuses. It's nowhere near explicit (it's not even the most explicit chapter in the story), but it's there.
> 
> Oh, and I can't remember the exact layout of Kinloch Hold, or the order in which things happen once you're actually inside the tower. Because I'm me, I just made it fit together the way I wanted rather than take the time to look it up. Sorry not sorry. :)

None of Daylen's plans cover what they find at the tower, but it takes him less than a blink to see how he might turn the situation to his advantage. The idea that he might walk out of here with everything he came for is breathtaking. It's impossible, and he doesn't trust it, but he has to try.

And since he's so far managed not to snort derisively at everyone's apparent surprise over Uldred's rebellion, anything is possible.

At the door that leads from the front hall deeper into the tower, Daylen pauses and looks back at Zevran, who meets his eyes with a small smile and a smaller nod. There's no need to look around for Alistair or Barkspawn--Daylen always knows where they are--and the knowledge that the three of them are nearby steadies him. No one in a demon-infested tower is safe, but at least Daylen is in no more danger than anyone else.

Walking through those doors is like stepping into the Fade, a warped mirror that reflects the world clearly enough to make the distortions all the more disturbing. He could walk the tower blindfolded from the front hall up to the Harrowing Chamber, and yet, it feels like he's never been here before in his life. He never wanted to come back, but even when he did think about returning, he never imagined he would find the walls painted in blood and the halls full of rotting corpses.

As they clear the tower floor by floor, Daylen takes the time to examine those corpses, even the ones whose faces are disfigured beyond recognition. In many cases, he doesn't need physical features to know them; he can recognize an amulet, or the distinctive style of a robe, or the unusual wrapping of a sword hilt. These are things he saw every day of his life, the Circle too small for anonymity, and he can put a name to every body that is a body rather than charred and bloody pieces.

The only bodies he avoids are those too small to be adults, though he could almost certainly identify them, too. Better not to know right now. Even he has a limit on how much rage he can use before it overwhelms him.

He pauses longer than usual for three bodies, two in the broken pieces of templar armor and one in a mage's robes. All three are clearly dead by magic, and Daylen wonders if they really died at the hands of abominations, or if they fell to opportunists taking advantage of the chaos to exact revenge. If he'd been here, he certainly would have sought them out for that purpose, and he wasn't the only one of their victims with reason enough to take the risk, not to mention the nerve and ingenuity to have a real chance at success.

It's tempting to set fire to those three bodies and burn them to ash the way he'll never burn away his memories of them. He might have to provide at least the broad outlines of an explanation to his companions so they didn't think he'd lost his mind and mistaken a corpse for a threat, but even that potential humiliation isn't a deterrent. What stops him is the surge of emotion he felt on recognizing them, something more than rage or relief or joy but made up of all three. There are others here who deserve to have that same chance, directly rather than second-hand from him. He's not sure he would believe anyone's promise these three were dead. His gut would insist they were alive long after his mind accepted their absence as sufficient proof.

The mage's body is the third they find, and Daylen is tired enough that he staggers when he tries to rise from where he knelt. He needed to be sure, to see clearly and to touch the ring that left more than one bloody mark on his face. Far from his worst memories of those hands, but certainly the most common.

As he stumbles sideways, trying to regain his balance, an armored hand catches his elbow to save him from falling. The buzzing of lyrium and a templar's power is like a carpenter's rasp on his skin, here in this place where he felt the same thing too close, too often. Daylen almost jerks his arm away instinctively, but he remembers that it's Alistair just in time and turns his recoil into nothing more than a twitch.

He turns slowly, allowing him to free his elbow gently from Alistair's steadying hand without making it obvious that's what he's doing. If Alistair notices, he doesn't say anything, his attention all on the body at their feet.

"A friend?" Alistair asks quietly.

"No." The word is final and too flat, but at least it doesn't shake. "Let's go."

"We should stop for a while," Alistair says, finally looking up but not at Daylen. "You...we're all tired after that." A jerk of his head indicates the door they just came through, and by extension, their time in the Fade.

Daylen doesn't want to stop. He's shivering, deep in his chest the way he did a few times in the Frostbacks when he was so cold his teeth chattered, and while he knows he isn't physically cold right now, a fire would still help. Specifically, setting templars and abominations on fire.

" _I'm_ tired," Alistair says, still in that quiet, level voice.

It's so blatantly manipulative that rage washes away the chill trying to settle permanently into Daylen's bones.

He spins around to tell Alistair what he thinks of that tactic, only to have the words die unspoken. Alistair does look tired, and now that Daylen pays attention, so do the others. It's harder to tell how he feels himself, under the emotions he's trying to shove back into the locked rooms in his head where they belong, but there's no denying the fatigue on all the faces around him. No one has the drained look that warns they're about to collapse, though.

 _You wanted to lead,_ the annoying voice in his head reminds him, the way it has more than once in the last year. _Act like it._

No one is at their limit yet, and they can keep going if necessary, but that doesn't mean he should ask them to.

"All right," Daylen says. "We'll rest for a bit."

His face feels stiff and his body like someone else's as he leads the way back through the corridors to a room that's relatively undisturbed and entirely free of corpses. The others break out rations and find places to sit on the furniture that's still intact, but the thought of sitting makes Daylen want to scream, and his stomach rebels at the sight of food.

"I'll keep watch," he says to the room at large and doesn't wait for an answer before striding to the doorway.

Wynne follows him, and though he tries to discourage her by refusing to make eye contact, she steps closer than he wants anyone right now and says gently, "I know you're angry."

Her tone grates on him, so excessively gentle it borders on insulting, like he might fall apart if she doesn't handle him carefully. He ignores her and hopes she takes the hint.

She does the opposite: she touches his shoulder and says in that same infuriating voice, "I understand why, too, but you need to let go of it."

That pulls him around so he can give her a long, slow blink. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You need to let go of all that anger," she says, though he can tell from her face that she knows he heard her the first time. "You can't continue to carry it around for the rest of your life."

"Yes," he says over the roaring of blood in his ears, "yes, I can."

"All right, yes, you can," she says, exasperated. "That doesn't mean you should."

He looks down into her warm eyes and sees the same calm acceptance he remembers. It's the way she's been the whole time he's known her, calm and unflappable and never one to fight an unwinnable fight. The world is the way it is, and she would rather find a way to live within it than throw herself against a wall that will never come down.

Mistaking the reason for his silence, she says, "It's going to eat away at you if you don't let it go."

True enough, as far as it goes. Daylen knew it before he left the Circle, and he's spent the last year trying to turn knowledge into practice, now that he has a chance at a life where he doesn't always need the shield that anger gives him. And yet, hearing her say it makes him want to cling to every petty and not-so-petty grudge until the rage is enough to burn the entire world.

She squeezes his shoulder gently. "You need to forgive-"

"No," he says, cutting her off before he loses the ability to think past the rage. "I don't, and I won't."

"Daylen-"

As gentle as she could want him to be, he takes her hand from his shoulder and cradles it in both of his. "Listen to me very carefully," he says, holding her gaze and speaking softly. "I don't care what you think I need. I don't care if you're right. I will _not_ forgive them, and I will _not_ let it go, and if you touch me again without my permission, I will treat you the way I wasn't allowed to treat them."

With a last pat, he releases her hand, every movement slow and deliberate. She stares at him, taken aback but still unable to grasp that he isn't her student anymore and he isn't interested in her "lessons."

From across the room, Leliana calls, "Wynne? Do you have a moment to look at something?"

Wynne hesitates, recognizing the diversion for what it is, but at last she sighs and leaves Daylen alone. As she walks by, Zevran gives her his most flirtatious smile, but as soon as she's past him, he gives Daylen a commiserating headshake. Daylen gives him a tight smile and a nod of thanks, hoping he'll pass it along to Leliana when the opportunity presents itself.

As Daylen turns back to face the corridor outside the room, another memory surfaces, this time from after he left the Circle: telling Zevran about the second time a templar hit him with a smite, and Zevran's smile that managed to be understanding with none of Wynne's unwanted sympathy. If Daylen knows anyone who could match Wynne for fatalistic acceptance of the way the world is, it would be Zevran, and yet, it's only Wynne who makes him want to set things on fire. Maybe because Zevran's kind of acceptance doesn't insist that Daylen forgive the unforgiveable before he's allowed to learn it.

Even more tense than he was before, Daylen plants the butt of his staff on the floor and tries to find some distance from his emotions. That's hard to do when he can't shake his awareness of the room behind him and the people in it, any and all of whom could be watching him. He wants to walk out of the doorway to somewhere no one can see him, but unlike the Deep Roads, he can't sense the enemies here. An abomination that's retained its intelligence could sneak up on him, as could a templar trapped up here with them. In this particular situation, Daylen wouldn't even blame any templar who chose to attack first and ask questions later, except inasmuch as he blames them for everything that's happened here.

Moving out of the others' line of sight would verge on the suicidal right now, so he has to content himself with keeping his back to them. It's not what he wants, but it's better than nothing, and at least he can glare at the wall while he locks the memories away again. It doesn't matter where he is, and it doesn't matter whose body he's seen or not seen. It doesn't matter what happened in the past, what he's done or had done to him. He's here for a reason, and he'll do what he has to do now, because there are no acceptable alternatives.

He knows he has himself back under control at the point he notices Barkspawn hasn't come over to demand that he pet her. Worried he might have missed that she was injured, Daylen turns to look for her, only to relax again as soon as he sees her. She's sitting at Alistair's feet where he's half sitting, half leaning against the room's small desk, with Alistair's hand looped firmly through the back of her collar.

Hers is the only gaze in the room pointed at him, he's relieved to note, but the moment his eyes meet hers, she gives a small whine that gets everyone's attention. They look first at her and then follow the line of her gaze to him, all except for Alistair, who didn't bother to look at Barkspawn first. Daylen wonders if it's because Alistair has been looking toward the door so often that habit had him look there first, or if he knows Barkspawn as well as Daylen does. There are only two things that would make her whine like that when they're someplace so dangerous--Daylen coming toward her, or an attack--and for either of those things, Alistair's attention should be on the door.

Alistair is also the only one who doesn't look back at his food once it's clear they're not under attack. Instead, he meets Daylen's gaze and makes a show of loosening his grip on Barkspawn's collar as he tilts his head in a question. Barkspawn tenses, ready to spring forward the moment Alistair releases her, and Daylen is suddenly, fiercely glad both of them are here with him.

"I can stand watch a while," Zevran says, his tone adding a shrug and making the offer seem casual. "If you wish to sit and eat."

Food still holds no appeal, but Daylen nods his thanks and walks toward Alistair and Barkspawn. She comes to meet him, sniffing him and getting in his way for the last few steps, and she flings herself down to lie across his boots as soon as he leans against the desk next to Alistair. Side by side rather than facing him, and not touching, but close enough Daylen could reach out if he wanted to.

"I wasn't sure if you wanted her company," Alistair says, shaking out the hand that was holding Barkspawn's collar. "She thinks I'm an idiot, but we agreed I'd let her go if you called her."

"Fool dog," Daylen says affectionately to her. She rolls onto her back and wriggles happily until he bends over long enough to give her belly a quick scratch. Without looking up, he adds to Alistair, "You were right. Thank you."

"I told you so," Alistair says to Barkspawn, who ignores him.

Daylen huffs out a brief laugh, too quietly for anyone except Barkspawn to hear, and straightens up to lean against the desk once more. There's a creak of leather and soft scrape of metal as Alistair shifts his weight, away and then back to precisely the same distance from Daylen as he started. He says nothing, though, and Daylen isn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed at the lack of even an attempted joke.

The room is quiet except for the sounds of eating and the occasional rustle as someone gets something from one of the small packs they brought with them. Daylen watches Barkspawn breathe and works on not thinking. When Alistair holds out a handful of dried fruit, he takes it and eats it absently, more from habit than hunger.

The sticky sweetness of the fruit makes him thirsty, and he drains the waterskin Alistair holds out. Only after he's emptied it does he remember that he hadn't said anything about being thirsty; he hadn't even begun to reach for his own waterskin, because Alistair's was already there.

He also wasn't hungry.

Daylen stares at the waterskin in his hands, then gives Alistair a narrow-eyed look. Alistair returns him a hopeful smile and wordlessly holds out a strip of dried meat.

Anger stirs at how neatly he's been maneuvered into something he didn't want, but Daylen smothers it. Alistair didn't pin him down and force-feed him, or beg until Daylen gave in out of guilt or exasperation. All he did was offer the food and leave it up to Daylen to take it or not. That Alistair has spent almost the entire time they've known each other establishing this pattern, where he hands Daylen food and Daylen eats it, isn't the same as deliberate manipulation.

 _Are you really going to get mad at him because he was nice too often?_ Daylen asks the angry part of him. Alistair isn't the sort of person who would be kind with the goal of using that kindness against someone later.

Ignoring the suspicious mutterings from the back of his head, he accepts the proffered food, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Thanks."

"I have more," Alistair says.

"Don't push your luck." But Daylen can't quite stop the other corner of his mouth from curling up.

"Never mind," Alistair says, "I don't have more. Absolutely none, at all, anywhere."

Daylen shakes his head, still smiling, and settles back against the desk to gnaw on the dried meat. After a few bites and a lot of careful consideration, he presses his shoulder to Alistair's, just firmly enough to be sure Alistair can feel it. Daylen isn't sure he'd want to do even that much if it meant skin contact, but Alistair's armor saves him from that and allows him to lean against Alistair without leaning on him.

By the time Daylen finishes eating, everyone else is done, too, and it's a relief to be back in motion. The need to stay alert leaves him no time to think about anything except the half-dozen spells he's holding ready.

The rest of that floor is empty of real threats, but at the top of the next flight of stairs, they find a glowing prison with a templar trapped inside. He's praying, head bowed, and Daylen steps closer, wanting to see who it is before he decides what to do. Beside him, he senses Alistair doing the same, except half of Alistair's attention is on him, waiting for the signal to attack.

As soon as the templar looks up, Daylen shakes his head minutely at Alistair. _No, leave him be._ He remembers Cullen with more exasperation and anger than fear or hate. Young, deeply devout and blinded by it. Not one of the templars who pretended ignorance, but one of the few who truly was. There were times Daylen wanted to grab him by his curly hair and force him to see what his fellows were doing, but Cullen's blindness wasn't feigned, and Daylen won't leave him imprisoned.

By the time they leave him behind, healed and with a waterskin and some of their food, Daylen is reminded of all the times he wanted to slap the man, but he doesn't have a chance to think about it much. They've barely started down the hall before they have more important concerns: a desire demon with a templar in its thrall. A templar Daylen recognizes with all the fear and hate he didn't have for Cullen.

The demon's eyes skim over them, too knowing by half, and its form shifts, growing taller as its shoulders broaden, skin and hair paling to match Alistair's. Daylen can't even pretend to be surprised by the face the demon has chosen; he would have been more surprised if it had chosen any other. At least the illusion seems to be visible only to him. No one is turning to stare at him or Alistair, so whatever they see, it must be as personal to them as this is to Daylen.

Distracted by his memories and the demon's form, Daylen allows himself to be drawn into the room away from the others. Worse, he says all the wrong things, and it doesn't help that he knows they're the wrong things even as they're leaving his mouth. As Drass draws his sword, Daylen consoles himself that maybe there was no right thing he could have said, that any choice he made would have led to this.

Maker knows he won't weep to see Drass bleeding on the floor.

Then Drass raises one hand, and Daylen barely has time to shut himself off from the Fade before that too-familiar sensation washes over him. His vision blurs for a moment, but his magic is still there as soon as he reaches for it to throw fire at Drass.

It catches Drass by surprise, and he dodges awkwardly, still in the middle of drawing his sword. Daylen opens his mouth to shout something--probably _"fuck you!"_ because he's too focused on the fight to think of a more creative insult--then a second smite comes down, and Daylen remembers too late that Drass has all the templar experience Alistair lacks. Drass can hit harder and faster, and he won't make the mistake of announcing his intentions with a gesture again.

Daylen lets go of his magic rather than allow the smite to rip it away. Not quite fast enough to avoid a wave of dizziness, but his vision stays clear enough for him to keep track of Drass, and he's ready to open himself back up to the Fade as soon as he can.

What he's not expecting is for Drass to be ready, too. Every time Daylen begins to draw magic, Drass hits him again and Daylen has to let go again, a series of quick back-and-forth exchanges that remind Daylen of the way Zevran fights someone like Alistair or Sten. Rather than try to match their strength, he darts in and away, quicker than they can catch him, never where they expect him to be.

Quick is what Daylen needs to be now, as he and Drass trade blows for what feels like days but can't be more than the space of a few breaths. In the blink between each smite and the next, Daylen flings any spell he can think of, but without time to draw power from the Fade, they're weak and ineffective. The best he manages to do is punch a bolt of pure force through Drass's leg, slowing but not stopping his advance, and Daylen can't keep this up indefinitely. Dodging the worst effects of each smite isn't the same as not being hit at all. Every spell hurts, and the more magic he pulls, the more it hurts.

The room is spinning and his stomach is trying to crawl up his throat as Drass closes in, but Daylen reaches for the Fade anyway, the way he's practiced. As he grits his teeth against the pain, Alistair's words flash suddenly through his head: _"It hurt, but it didn't matter. Pain wasn't a reason to stop fighting."_

Through the nausea and the fear, it makes him smile.

Drass gives him a startled look and hesitates, which is all the time Daylen needs. He ignores the room spinning like a wagon wheel and ignores the bile in his throat. He reaches for as much magic as he can hold, strains for it the way he hasn't in years, reaching and reaching until his mind feels like an over-tightened harp string about to snap, humming with the promise of the pain that will hit him when that happens. He ignores that, too. It doesn't matter. It's not a reason to stop fighting.

_And it didn't kill me last time, so it won't kill me this time._

Then magic is flooding into him the way it should, real power and not the pitiful scraps he's been trying to make into anything useful, and he throws up a proper shield just in time to catch Drass's sword and knock it aside. On the other side of that glowing barrier, Drass's eyes widen in shock. Daylen bares his teeth in a savage grin and slams his magic outward, throwing Drass into the wall hard enough to send chips of stone flying. Drass slides down to land on the floor with a groan, and Daylen gathers more magic to finish him off-

Pressure builds so fast he would swear it makes his ears pop, and another smite crashes down with almost no warning. He tries to push the Fade away, but he doesn't have time to finish before the blow lands, and oh Maker, it _hurts_ , everything hurts as his magic is ripped away again. His throat and eyes and nose burn with acid as his stomach turns itself inside out and his knees buckle, sending him crashing to the floor in a heap. He lands badly, feels something snap in his wrist, one more pain in a storm of them.

 _Doesn't matter, doesn't matter, doesn't matter,_ he chants silently. He can't see through the tears in his eyes, can't stop retching long enough to look up, but he knows where Drass was, and he knows the smite itself won't kill him.

_It. Doesn't. Matter._

What matters is his magic, because not getting it back is what will kill him.

 _I've done it before,_ he thinks, and even in his head the words are a growl. _I can fucking well do it again._

The rattle of armor tells him Drass is getting closer, the sound distorted and distended. Time is strange in the Fade, and Daylen is half inside it now, reaching and reaching and reaching for his magic. His body is still vulnerable, though, out in the waking world where Drass and Drass's sword can get to it. It's a race, except he was to run a mile for every step Drass takes, and Drass wasn't very far away to begin with.

The pain is rising higher now, almost overwhelming. Daylen reaches further anyway. He knows this stretched-taut agony, the way his mind feels like it's about to pull apart under the strain, and he reaches for more pain deliberately, demands it and then demands more. He knows how far he has to reach, how much it will hurt before he gets there, and the pain is nothing but a signpost, each new wave telling him he's getting closer.

Magic bursts through him like soldiers breaching the wall of a fortress. Daylen doesn't have the strength left to refine it or control it, but he can direct it, and he aims it straight at Drass. He doesn't know what form it takes, just feels the rightness of a spell successfully cast.

His stomach heaves again, and at first, he can't control that, either. The instant he can, he looks up and casts wild eyes around the room. He needs to know where Drass is, whether another smite is coming, because that might be more than he can take so soon after the others.

Then his burning eyes focus, and he knows another smite isn't going to be a problem. Not unless Drass is some kind of revenant, to literally put himself back together.

With the immediate threat gone, Daylen's body wants to curl around the pain and lie whimpering on the floor, but he refuses to give in. There's still the demon to deal with. One demon, then he can collapse, at least for a little while.

The others don't need him, though. Daylen hasn't managed to stand up, has barely turned in the right direction, before the demon's body hits the floor and doesn't move again.

He doesn't get much of a chance to study it, because his vision is blocked almost immediately by a pair of armored shins. Alistair drops to his knees in a barely controlled fall, shaking off one gauntlet as he does it. As soon as his hand is bare, he reaches for Daylen's face, only to stop halfway there.

Daylen finds the strength to push his abused body forward, shoving his head awkwardly under Alistair's hand, like Barkspawn demanding to be petted.

Alistair laughs, breathless and weak. Both of his hands are on Daylen's face now, cupping his cheeks and holding him steady so Alistair can press their foreheads together hard enough to hurt.

Without thinking, Daylen raises his own hands to press them over top of Alistair's, then jerks at the pain and clenches his teeth on a cry. Alistair all but leaps backwards, and Daylen isn't quick enough to stop him. The attempt jars his injured wrist, doubling him up around it as his vision goes grey.

"Here," someone says gently, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. Wynne. "Let me see."

Daylen holds his arm out to her, teeth still clenched. At the current rate, he might never be able to unclench them again.

Wynne's hand is blessedly cool as she wraps it around his wrist and lets her magic flow into it, knitting the bone in the time it takes him to get his breath back. When the bone is healed, she glances at him, eyebrows raised in a question, and he nods permission. Her magic moves up his arm, healing and soothing away pains as it finds them, from the burn of acid in his throat to his pounding headache to the raw red ache left behind by his desperate struggle to pull his magic back to him.

The last of the pain goes out of him, and he sighs in relief. Without opening his eyes, he says fervently, "Thank you."

"Of course," Wynne says. She releases his wrist but doesn't move away.

After a moment, Daylen blinks his eyes open, cocking his head to the side in question.

She gives him a faint smile. "I'm surprised you're still conscious after all that."

"I guess anger is good for something." He winces as soon as the words are out, but he doesn't apologize or try to take them back.

"It would appear so," she says. She's humoring him, or he thinks she is until she adds, "However you did it, I was quite impressed. I don't think I've ever seen a mage struck that many times and still able to get up."

"Well," Daylen says, annoyed with himself for the way the praise warms him, "I haven't gotten up yet."

"Then let's work on that, shall we?" She stands and steps aside, looking at Alistair.

Alistair is chewing hard on one side of his lower lip, brows drawn down in an anxious frown, but when Daylen holds up a hand, Alistair steps forward quickly to take it and haul him to his feet. Daylen wants to hold on to his hand, to make sure he understands that the broken wrist was the only reason Daylen recoiled, but...

But that's not a conversation he wants to have in front of their friends and a lot of corpses. It will have to wait for later.


	13. I Want to be the Sea at Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me, actually sticking to my own schedule for once. \o/
> 
> And a non-sarcastic \o/ plus a few thousand thank yous to Ginipig and Ricochet for helping me beat this thing into shape. <3

When Uldred is dead, Daylen leaves the bodies for someone else to clean up--he's done more than his share just by getting this far--and leads the way back down to the entrance hall.

The conversation that follows is unpleasant but unavoidable. He refuses to give Cullen what he wants, but he can't bring himself to be angry over it. How long was Cullen in that prison, at the mercy of an entire army of demons? Daylen knows what that mix of hate and fear looks like from the inside, and he knows the desire to destroy anything and everything connected to the people who tried to break him. Daylen's memory of his first meeting with Alistair is proof enough of that.

But since a mage's sympathy is unlikely to be welcome, he lets it go.

Discussing the treaty with Greagoir and Irving goes almost too smoothly. All Daylen's carefully prepared arguments and threats and bribes turn out to be unnecessary, the treaty accepted as soon as he produces it from his pack. It makes him wonder if one or both of them didn't know about it all along, and they were simply waiting to see if the Wardens would come to collect what they were owed. If so, Daylen thinks less of them for it, and there wasn't much lower his opinion could go.

It doesn't take long to discuss the few details they can settle now, and when it's finished, Daylen's party begins to gather up their gear without a word spoken. Wynne misses the signal and lags a beat behind the others, and she has so many bags they're further delayed by the need to re-distribute the weight among the others. Since nearly all of that extra weight is made up of supplies and equipment she needs, or thinks she might need, to help Eamon and Connor, Daylen curbs his impulse to comment on the added burden.

As packs are shuffled from one person to another, exhaustion making everyone short-tempered, Irving says mildly, "It's quite late. We can offer you beds for the night, if you'd like them."

Daylen turns an incredulous laugh into a cough. "We have rooms at the inn," he says.

"Of course." There's a knowing look on Irving's face that says he's heard every word and laugh and snarl Daylen has kept behind his teeth since he walked into the tower this morning. "But it will take several hours to cross the lake, and I know you must all be tired."

"We have rooms at the inn," Daylen repeats, deliberately using the exact same words.

Politeness dictates that he thank Irving for the offer. Daylen gives him a tight smile instead.

Normally, Daylen would check with the others before making a decision that will keep them all awake long into the night, but for this, he can't do it. He wants to be gone from here. He wants to have never been forced to return here at all, even having gotten everything he came for. He keeps waiting to find out this was all another Fade dream, or some kind of bizarre joke on the templars' part, and even when they allow him to leave the tower without a murmur of protest, he doesn't quite believe it's real. It isn't possible they'll let him escape their control a second time.

Outside on the dock, some perverse impulse holds Daylen back to allow everyone else to board the ferry first. Alistair and Barkspawn stay beside him, bracketing him like guards and subtly herding him forward so that in the end, he's second-to-last onto the ferry, Alistair bringing up the rear. Daylen spends a little time trying to decide how he feels about that--he's touched by the show of concern, but he's also capable of protecting himself--then abandons the effort. His head is already a mess right now, and there isn't room for anything more.

As they pull away from the dock, the others relax, and Daylen tries to look like he's done the same. When low-voiced conversations begin to spring up, he moves to the back of the ferry in case someone tries to talk to him and realizes how tense he is. He doesn't want to be, but he can't imagine being anything else right now.

The ferry isn't quick, and the tower is still close enough to loom over him the way it has his entire life. Looking straight up at the top has always given him the dizzying impression it's about to fall on him, and it's no different now, an imposing pile of stone ready to crush him if it can.

"Fuck you." The words are quiet, but they're twisted through with the fear and hate and rage he can't ever shake, not completely. He wants to rip the whole tangle out of his chest and leave it on that Maker-forsaken island where it belongs, not carry it with him everywhere he goes. He wants to be someone who isn't always angry, someone who isn't afraid when he runs out of anger to hide behind, someone whose life hasn't been defined by people he hates.

Daylen shuts his eyes to block out the sight of the tower. He doesn't need to see it, and even if he never sets foot on the island again, he'll always be tied to this place. Coming back has driven home the reality of that and thrown a harsh light onto all the things he wants but can never have.

Behind him, someone laughs, the sound unexpected and jarring after the quiet murmur of voices and the lapping of water against the ferry. Daylen's whole body jerks in reaction, but at least it knocks him out of his own head long enough to recognize the spiral that had caught him. Whatever else the templars did, they didn't break him. Impossible as it seemed last night--impossible as it's seemed his whole life--they let him leave without a fight, not once but twice, and Daylen won't ever give them a third chance.

There's more noise from behind him, a metallic jingle followed by a thump, and that's odd enough to make him turn to look. It doesn't help his confusion: Alistair, Oghren, and Sten are all in the middle of removing their armor, piling it as neatly as possible near the center of the ferry, for no reason Daylen can see.

Puzzled, he forgets to avoid eye contact with anyone, and as Alistair straightens from tucking the last of his armor into the pile, their eyes meet. Alistair, predictably, takes that as an invitation to join Daylen at the back of the ferry, and Daylen doesn't have the heart to chase him away. He isn't even sure he wants to: he's caught in that awkward position he's found himself in before, wanting to be alone but wanting to be near Alistair at the same time.

"We decided we were the most dangerous thing out here," Alistair says in response to Daylen's raised eyebrows. "And that if something does happen, none of us wants to be wearing that much metal."

Having seen how long it takes them to get into and out of their armor, Daylen has to admit it makes sense, but he's too on edge. Part of him wants to pick a fight, and it's easy to find reason to take offense. "I might be tired," he says irritably, "but I could keep everyone from drowning."

"Sure," Alistair says with an agreeable shrug, "but I don't want to find out how far I can sink before you catch me."

"It wouldn't take that long," Daylen says without thinking. "I always know where you are."

Alistair gives him a startled, intent look, then shakes himself. "The lyrium. Right."

"That, too." Daylen bites his tongue hard as soon as the words are out. Maker save him, he has more self-control than this, but half his attention is on the buzzing under his skin that keeps looking for an outlet. Any outlet, whether that's fighting or fucking, as if either one isn't a terrible idea right now.

To give himself a moment where he doesn't have to guard his face or his words, he begins to fight his way free of his robes. They're sticky with blood and ichor, some of which probably rubs off on his face and hands, but he tries not to think about it. He's not exactly clean himself, not after the day they've just had. At least after cutting his hair so short, he doesn't have to worry about getting anything out of it later.

There's a nice breeze out here on the lake, and the sun has been down for a while, but it's still hot enough Daylen sighs in relief once he's down to boots, shirt, and trousers. What's startling, though, is the difference it makes in his mood: as his skin cools, the restless energy beneath it settles down to a more bearable level. He would still prefer to do anything other than stand around for however long it takes the ferry to make its laborious way back to the docks, but he no longer feels like he's in imminent danger of setting it on fire.

"I hate summer," he says to Alistair, who grins at him.

"It's almost over."

"For this year," Daylen mutters darkly as he shakes out his robes to give them a critical once-over. Filthy, and there are several tears that will be expensive and time-consuming to fix.

"How bad is it?" Alistair asks, tipping his chin at the largest slash.

"Fixable," Daylen says. "Which is good, because these are my favorite robes."

Alistair snorts a laugh, since they're also Daylen's only robes. "Come on," he says, "take your boots off so we can sit."

That makes no sense, and Daylen frowns at him, but Alistair is already working on his own. Daylen considers waiting to see how wearing boots has anything to do with sitting, then shrugs philosophically and sets to work.

By the time he's pulled off his boots, Alistair is sitting at the end of the ferry's deck, his feet hanging in the water and a grin on his face at whatever he sees in Daylen's expression. There's plenty of room, but Alistair makes a point of sliding sideways and gesturing at the space he's just vacated, and Daylen doesn't need more of an invitation than that.

Once he's seated, he uses a bit of magic to raise a thin stream of water from the lake to wash off his face and hands, concentrating on the mundane to stop himself from looking up at the tower slowly receding into the distance behind them.

"Here," Alistair says when Daylen is finished, and Daylen turns as Alistair offers a wrapped bundle he wasn't carrying when they sat down.

Daylen accepts the bundle and unwraps it to find--what else--food. "Did you turn into a mage when I wasn't looking?"

"Nah," Alistair drawls, smirking, and volunteers nothing else.

From behind them, Barkspawn whuffles, and Daylen looks over his shoulder, surprised. He forgets how quietly she can move, and he wasn't paying as close attention to his surroundings as he otherwise might. Out in the middle of Lake Calenhad, an attack is unlikely, but that isn't the real reason, and Daylen knows it. The surprise isn't that having Alistair nearby makes him feel safer; the surprise is how much safer.

Then the pieces fall together, and he gives Alistair a look. "Are you teaching my _dog_ to nag me about eating, too?"

"I need all the help I can get," Alistair says.

"I'm not that bad."

Alistair looks skeptical. "Have you eaten anything since we got out of the Fade?"

A moment ago, Daylen would have said he was fine, but now that he pays attention, he's light-headed from hunger. Half a loaf of stale bread and a few strips of dried meat have never looked so good. It's all he can do not to try to stuff all of the bread into his mouth at once.

"I forgot I was hungry," he admits.

The look Alistair gives him is both exasperated and resigned, and Daylen shrugs helplessly. They've had this conversation before, and this is familiar ground for both of them, comforting in its routine.

Barkspawn whines softly and gives Daylen an entreating look when he glances in her direction. _"I was good,"_ her look seems to say. _"I brought the food and didn't eat any of it."_

For once, Alistair is the hard-hearted one. He stabs a finger in her direction and says, "Stop that. You already had some."

With an annoyed huff, Barkspawn lies down and drops her chin to the deck, doing her best to look faint from hunger.

Alistair's snort sounds remarkably like her huff, and Daylen grins around a mouthful of bread. Under the guise of scratching Barkspawn's ears, he slips her a bit of the dried meat.

"I saw that," Alistair says.

"No, you didn't."

"You're right, I didn't." He passes over his waterskin with a grin. "But you just gave yourself away."

Caught out, Daylen slides Barkspawn another strip of meat without bothering to hide it. Alistair shakes his head but only asks, "How's your arm?"

"Good," Daylen says, holding out the one he broke when Drass hit him the last time. "Perfect, actually." He turns it over and rotates his wrist to demonstrate. "See?"

At Daylen's nod of permission, Alistair takes that offered hand in both of his. His grip is loose, his thumb rubbing gently at the inside of Daylen's wrist in a movement he doesn't seem to be aware of as he scrutinizes the whole arm.

Daylen wants to be less aware of it, and he takes his hand back as soon as he can, pretending he needs it to hold his food while he drinks more water. When he's sure his voice is under control, he says, "Wynne is the best healer I've ever seen, or heard about." Then, because he knows it will comfort Alistair, he adds, "If anyone can help Eamon and Connor, it's her."

The relief on Alistair's face is more than worth the effort it took to swallow his own hatred of Eamon long enough to say the words.

Silence grows between them as Daylen eats. It's comfortable at first, but the longer it lasts, the more time Daylen has to think, and remember. His thoughts skip rapidly between too many memories: Alistair's hand on his wrist just now, Drass staring at him in shock through the shield's glow, the nausea and pain of a smite. Alistair's hand holding his gently, and Alistair's hand squeezing his until the bones ache.

Drass's hands made his bones ache, too, but it wasn't the same. Daylen remembers bruises and the marks of a cane across his palms, and Drass was far from the worst of them. To the best of Daylen's knowledge, Drass's punishments were limited to a cane and his closed fist, applied to any mage who was less than deferential to his position. Daylen learned young to keep his eyes down, to hide the rage and hate, but at least that was enough to protect him from Drass. Other templars weren't as easy to manage.

So many of Daylen's memories of Kinloch Hold involve other people's hands, few of them happy. In the dark after lights-out, the apprentices would whisper to each other, and often about the templars: how to keep this one happy, how to avoid that one, who could be played against each other to a mage's advantage. Who was a cruel patron, and who was a kind one. Who was an easy patron to please but without the position or the will to offer real protection. The whispers and manipulation and maneuvering would have done an Orlesian bard proud.

In the here and now, Alistair shifts his weight, his shoulder bumping against Daylen's as he does. It pulls Daylen back to the present for a moment, and then to the more recent past, to Duncan's death, to the sickening taste of darkspawn blood in his mouth. To his first meeting with Alistair and all the rage and fear and hate Daylen had felt when he realized Alistair was a templar, before he understood that Alistair was never a templar, could never have been one. Daylen didn't have time to get to know Duncan properly, but he loves the man just for taking Alistair away from the templars, and hates Eamon a little more for trying to make him into one.

"Hey," Alistair says softly.

Daylen twitches, startled. "What?"

"Nothing," Alistair says, his eyes on Daylen's face. "Just seemed like maybe you were somewhere else. Somewhere you didn't want to be."

Barkspawn's head is up, too, and she looks as concerned as a dog can look. Great.

"I'm fine," Daylen says, unwilling to acknowledge to himself, let alone to anyone else, how right Alistair is. "Just thinking."

Alistair nods in silence and continues to study him.

Daylen's heart is beating too hard, too many emotions battling for supremacy, most of them without any target to focus on. He needs to get out of his own head before all he wants is to curl up and let the Blight take the rest of the world. Or burn it all down himself.

Deep breath, he reminds himself, focusing on the air he's drawing in. Cool in his mouth, warmer by the time it reaches his throat, stretching his lungs until they ache, then slowly back out into the night. It doesn't calm him, not exactly, but it gives him enough space to remember something he wanted to say, something important enough to push everything else back into the darkness for at least a little while.

"I was thinking that I forgot to tell you something," Daylen says, stretching the truth a bit.

Alistair's fingers, which had begun to fidget with a wrinkle of fabric in his trousers, stop moving, and his voice is unexpectedly neutral as he says, "Oh?"

"I wanted to thank you." Daylen turns his body toward Alistair and tries to put all of his sincerity into the words. "I don't think you know how much it means to me."

"I...what?" He looks poleaxed, as if that was the last thing he expected Daylen to say, and Daylen winces internally. Is this one more thing to lay at Eamon's feet, or does Daylen really thank people so infrequently that it's a shock when he does?

"Thank you," Daylen says again, emphasizing each word, because whether he's making up for Eamon's failings or his own, the solution is the same. "Thank you for practicing with me. I know there were better things you could have been doing with your-"

"No," Alistair says, confusion melting into unexpected anger before he looks away. "There weren't better things I could have been doing. I knew how important it was to you, and I wanted to help."

"All right, not better, then," Daylen allows. He wishes he could see Alistair's face, but his head is turned away, toward the lights of the dock in the distance. "But definitely things that would have been more fun."

"Maybe." The word is so quiet, Daylen isn't sure Alistair knows he said it aloud.

"Should I be worried that you had fun hitting me?" he teases, unsure about the source of the problem but wanting to make Alistair smile again.

Alistair's head snaps back around, his mouth open on a protest that dies when he sees Daylen's face. He doesn't smile, though. "I'm glad I could help."

"I'm glad, too," Daylen says. "Today would have been a lot different without you."

In more ways than simply Daylen's ability to fight back after a smite, but Alistair doesn't seem to hear that part of it. His face is set, and while he hasn't turned completely away, he's staring out over the ferry's wake like something back there has personally offended him.

"When that templar hit you," Alistair says, then stops, throat working for a moment. "He hit you, and I couldn't get past that fucking demon."

"But I didn't need help. Not then." Daylen wants to grab him, needs him to understand. "I would have, yeah, if we hadn't been practicing all year, but I didn't. I could fight him by myself, and I could do that because of you. Because you helped me figure this out and get better, even when you were tired, even when you were upset with me, even when I was an asshole and forgot to say thank you."

"It's my job to protect you," Alistair says. "I should have stayed beside you, not let myself get distracted by the demon." He rubs his eyes tiredly. "No matter what it looked like."

Daylen would give every bit of coin he has to know what form the demon had taken for Alistair, but he pushes that aside as irrelevant. "Sure, I'd rather have you between me and the people with pointy things, but I can protect myself when I have to. Even against templars."

"He hurt you," Alistair says. Anger clouds his face again. "And not just today."

Daylen considers lying, then decides against it. "Yes, but that's why it matters so much to me that I didn't need help against him. _I_ did it. _Me_."

At last Alistair smiles, if reluctantly. "Yeah," he says. "You did."

"And I wouldn't have, without all that time practicing." He leans his shoulder against Alistair's, ignoring the unpleasant itching under his skin from being this close to anyone. "So thank you."

"You're welcome," Alistair says after a moment. He relaxes into Daylen's shoulder until they're propping each other up, Barkspawn a steadying weight against their backs.

They make the rest of the ride in silence. Daylen tries not to fidget, torn between those conflicting desires to be alone and to be with Alistair, trying to forget all the memories he worked so hard to forget the first time. He needs to move, and his only option right now is kicking his feet in the water. It's not very satisfying, but it's enough to get him through the trip.

When the ferry is docked by the Spoiled Princess, there's a bit of chaos as too many exhausted people try to collect their belongings and disembark onto a dock only wide enough for one person to jump across at a time. In that chaos, and with only his robes and staff to carry, Daylen is able to slip away unnoticed. He can't imagine sleeping right now, and lying in bed for what's left of the night, with nothing to distract him, is a horrifying prospect. Last night's solution isn't an option now. Morrigan is as tired as he is, and even if she wasn't, Daylen has had enough other people in his head for today.

The only well-lit area is around the dock and the inn, and once Daylen is behind the buildings, he's hidden from anyone who isn't looking for him. It makes a good place to stash his folded robes, but he keeps his staff with him. Even more than the robes, the hum of the staff's magic is a comforting reminder of the power he has now. Besides, tired as he is, he'll need it if he has to cast any spells.

Like the one he uses to light his path over the rocky ground. It's barely more than a glow, not even as obvious as a wisp, but it's enough to save him from tripping without completely destroying his night vision. All he has to worry about is not getting lost.

That thought is enough to pull him up short, and he hesitates, looking around. He's been moving gradually further from the shoreline, as if that extra distance from the lake will help him forget Kinloch Hold, but there aren't many clear landmarks out here in the dark. If he can't find his way back to the inn and has to wait for sunrise and the others to find him, he'll deserve every one of the jokes they'll make at his expense.

As he thinks, he tries to run a hand through hair he doesn't have anymore, that he left in the trash heap at the Spoiled Princess last night. There's barely stubble left, soft against his palm as he rubs it idly. The sensation is strange, like it's someone else's hair, even though he never let it grow longer than this when he was a prisoner in the tower.

His hand stops mid-motion as he suddenly remembers what he hadn't last night: the reason he kept his hair so short before he left Kinloch Hold the first time. If anyone had asked, he would have said short hair was less likely to catch a stray spark, an important consideration for someone learning fire spells. Maybe he would have said it was easier to care for, allowing him more time to study. He would not have said anything about how easy long hair was to grab or pull.

There was never a moment in the last year where he made a conscious decision to let his hair grow, but he can't deny the unconscious one, not now. Not when cutting his hair was one of the few preparations he made last night, after ignoring it all this time. It's like a part of him gave up before they even got on the ferry this morning. Like part of him is a deserter. A traitor.

He lurches into motion before panic freezes him in place. If he knew a way to outrun his own thoughts, he would do it, but since that's impossible, he keeps himself to a slow, careful pace roughly parallel to the shoreline. He thinks about his footing, and the spell illuminating the ground around his feet, and anything that isn't Kinloch Hold. In the dark and from this distance, the tower is invisible, but he can feel it looming over him as if he never left the island.

He pretends to ignore it and keeps walking. This isn't the fast, rough movement he thought he wanted when he was on the ferry, fighting or fucking or both together, but it is movement, and the rhythm of it is unexpectedly, soothingly familiar. He's spent the better part of the last year walking, and a good part of that in silence; even Zevran and Leliana run out of witticisms eventually, if they have no one new to talk with for days or weeks at a time.

The only way to stay sane on the long road from Denerim to Orzammar was to give the walking purpose, something more immediate and less abstract than reaching the dwarves to get their help against the Blight. Walking became a form of meditation, one that suited him better than the silent stillness they'd tried to teach him in the Circle, and Daylen had embraced it whole-heartedly. At the time, he'd simply been glad to find anything to occupy his mind that wasn't calculating and recalculating how many days were left.

Now, just the act of walking shifts something inside him. Gradually, so gradually he doesn't notice it happening, the hatred and anger begin to untangle themselves from the grief and fear underneath. He can't escape them, but he can unpick the knots so he can breathe, can roll them up and pack them away in a box instead of cramming them messily back down into the darkness.

He isn't a prisoner anymore, and there's nothing he can do about those who are except what he's already doing: saving Ferelden and perhaps proving that mages aren't abominations waiting to happen.

He'll always be who and what the templars made him, but he can use that in ways they didn't intend and don't want.

He'll carry Kinloch Hold with him wherever he goes, but he can keep going anyway.

When the sky begins to lighten, he turns around and makes his way back to the inn at the same pace, an efficient stride that won't win him any races but will get him where he's going without exhausting him in the process. There's still a long way to go before he can rest, and their return to Redcliffe is only the first part of that.

The sun isn't quite up by the time he reaches the inn, but most of the stars have faded and the sky has brightened enough for Daylen to release the magic he was using to light his way. The inn's kitchen is the only place showing signs of life, Daylen's companions getting what sleep they can. He envies them idly, without rancor, and looks around for the spot where he left his robes. It all looks a little different in daylight, but he thinks he remembers where he left them.

He turns to his right, only to stop dead as he rounds the corner. His robes are where he left them, but in his absence, they've acquired company. Furry company.

As he approaches, Barkspawn opens one eye from where she's lying with her head on top of his robes, which are still neatly folded, if now covered in dog hair and drool. Since that's over top of the blood and demon ichor from yesterday, he can hardly complain.

"Fool dog," he says affectionately, crouching to scratch her ears.

She snuffles happily at his boots without raising her head, every inch the lazy dog, until he tries to pull his robes out from under her. Before he can get them free, she bounds to her feet, snatches up his robes, and dances back a few feet, her tail wagging playfully. He steps toward her, and she steps back, staying just out of his reach and darting away every time he gets close. She looks so pleased with herself that he smiles and plays along, chasing her around the inn as best he can.

He doesn't realize he's being led until it's too late. He still thinks they're playing, and he makes another grab for his robes, except this time, Barkspawn runs away rather than just taking a few steps back. She charges across the yard and down the dock to drop Daylen's robes in the lap of the person seated at the far end.

Daylen considers his options, then gives a mental shrug and follows Barkspawn to where Alistair is sitting. To say he feels at peace would be a laughable overstatement--he's not sure he'll ever feel at peace unless he's dying--but he has his equilibrium back.

Mostly.

He thinks, too late, that time around Alistair is unlikely to help right now, not when there are so many unsaid words between them that they have an almost tangible weight. Alistair has seen him, though, and the carefully blank expression he turns in Daylen's direction won't get any better for Daylen turning tail.

"May I?" he asks, gesturing at the place on the dock beside Alistair, currently occupied by his robes, his fool dog, and a mug of tea Alistair seems to have forgotten to drink.

"I don't think it's up to me." Alistair gives Barkspawn a dubious look that changes to a smile when she licks the side of his face in a broad swipe from jaw to hairline. Daylen makes a disgusted face on principle, and Alistair's smile broadens into a grin.

"Go on," Daylen says to Barkspawn, nudging her hindquarters gently with the toe of his boot. "That's my spot you're sitting in."

She gives a happy bark and moves closer to Alistair, her meaning clear: she wants Daylen to sit on her other side, so she's between the two of them.

Alistair scratches her under the chin. "Go find me a stick?"

For one sleep-deprived moment, Daylen thinks the request is for him. Barkspawn, fortunately, knows who Alistair was talking to and goes running off to find a suitable stick, leaving Daylen free to take her place, though he sits facing Alistair, cross-legged with his back against a piling rather than with his feet dangling in the water. If he takes his boots off again today, he's not going to put them back on; he'll just lie down right here and sleep until tomorrow.

Which reminds him.

"Did you get any sleep at all?" Daylen asks.

Alistair gives an incredulous laugh. "Did you?"

"No," Daylen admits. "But I wasn't going to no matter what. I was hoping you would, though."

"I lay down for a bit," Alistair says

It's such a blatant evasion Daylen doesn't bother to point it out. He doesn't have room to criticize.

"I had some armor repairs to do," Alistair adds, "so I decided I might as well do them now."

Daylen makes a show of his surprise. "You mean you went to bed without cleaning your armor?"

"Of course not," Alistair begins. Then he catches sight of Daylen's face and rolls his eyes. "Asshole," he mutters, smiling.

Because of course Alistair cleaned his armor as soon as he got to his room. The only time he didn't clean his armor the moment he took it off, no matter how long the day or hard the fight, was when Daylen and Morrigan had to remove it for him after he fell off the cliff on the road from Orzammar. Since Daylen has occasionally lent a hand so Alistair can sleep that much sooner, he feels that buys him at least a little leeway to tease about it.

Barkspawn comes tearing down the dock, her claws clattering against the boards, to drop a stick nearly on top of them. Alistair, Void take him, steadies his mug of tea with one hand and catches the stick with the other, while the best Daylen can do is duck out of the way. If his robes weren't half under his leg, he would probably have knocked them into the lake.

"What are you going to do now?" Daylen asks Alistair, a flick of his hand indicating the lack of a good place for throwing sticks, unless they want to get up and return to land.

Alistair gives him a mischievous smile and throws the stick as hard as he can, straight out into Lake Calenhad.

Barkspawn leaps over them without so much as grazing their heads on the way by and plunges into the lake after it.

"You get to dry her off," Daylen informs him. "I'm not going to smell like wet dog for the rest of the day."

As soon as he's said it, he becomes aware that of the three of them, he's the one who probably smells the worst. Alistair cleaned up at some point, and the smell of wet dog can't compare to the smell that's probably following Daylen around, a combination of demon, stale sweat, and worse.

That must show on his face, because Alistair laughs. "You should go clean up."

"I'd be offended if you weren't right." Daylen can't smell himself, but he doesn't doubt he reeks.

If Alistair is bothered, there's no sign of it in his relaxed posture, which is completely at odds with the tense, unhappy hunch Daylen had seen before Barkspawn brought him Daylen's robes and Daylen himself.

"Oh, and here," Alistair says, holding out the mug. "This is for you. I made it a while ago, so it should have cooled off." He aims a glare at the first curve of the sun where it's cleared the horizon. "Since otherwise, it'd be too bloody hot out here to drink it."

Daylen looks at the mug and then at Alistair, feeling all those unspoken words pressing in around them even as he knows this is a terrible time to talk about anything important. He's tired down to his soul, and they have a long day ahead of them that will only wear him out more, _and_ their friends will be waking up shortly to interrupt any conversation that takes too long.

He's tempted to start it anyway.

While he thinks, he reaches for the mug with both hands, pressing his own over top of Alistair's. Daylen can see the exact moment when Alistair realizes it's not an accident borne of too little sleep, because every muscle in his body tenses.

"Hey," Daylen says softly, rubbing the back of Alistair's hand. "What-"

"You don't have to do that," Alistair blurts out. "I mean, I know we talked about it before, but...but I thought maybe I should say it again. You really don't have to."

Daylen blinks at him, confused. He feels like he was reading a book that Alistair has just flipped to a seemingly-random page, and it isn't until Alistair tries to pull his hand out from under Daylen's that the pieces come together.

"Touch you?" Daylen asks. "I don't have to touch you?"

At Alistair's nod, Daylen releases him and sits back, raising the mug to his lips to give himself time to think. It's elfroot tea, strong enough to be bitter and too full of honey in an attempt to mask the bitterness. "If it bothers you, then of course I'll stop."

"It doesn't bother me," Alistair says. "I just don't want you to do it if you don't want to."

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to," Daylen says in what he hopes is a calm and reasonable tone that doesn't betray the anger beginning to bubble up in his chest. He keeps a tight grip on the mug as a reminder that Alistair made this for him, that Alistair has done him hundreds of kindnesses, large and small, in the time they've known each other. But if they all came out of the belief that Daylen couldn't take care of himself....

Alistair takes a slow, deep breath and pulls his legs up so he can sit cross-legged facing Daylen. "You used to brace yourself if you had to touch me," he says to the piling behind Daylen's shoulder. "Like you were about to do something awful."

That douses the anger instantly. "Fuck," Daylen breathes. He searches for anything he can say that will soften the truth without lying, but what comes out of his mouth is an unhelpful, "I didn't realize you could tell."

"I could guess why, so I just kind of ignored it." Alistair's lips tighten briefly as he suppresses an expression Daylen can't read before it's gone. "And eventually, you...I don't know what the right words are, but you were always so comfortable touching the others, and it sort of...overflowed? Onto me. You got used to me, I guess, and you had this habit of touching people, so you'd just touch me, too, without thinking."

Daylen doesn't let his mouth hang open, but it's a near thing. Alistair might as well be talking about a stranger, someone who didn't treat touching people like learning a new spell, something to be studied and rehearsed and practiced.

"I tried to tell you that you didn't have to," Alistair says, "but I didn't know you really well then, so I didn't know if I should push. You tried to pretend you didn't mind, and it seemed more...polite? To pretend I hadn't noticed that you had to work yourself up to touch me." He straightens his shoulders, like he's prepared to take the punishment for a crime. "And I didn't want you to stop, so I didn't try as hard as I should have."

There are several parts of that Daylen wants to pursue, but right now, he can't focus on any of them except one. "Is that really how it looked to you, this whole time?" He hopes the horror he feels isn't coming through in his voice. "That every time I touched you, I was doing a chore? Or that it was only because I forgot you weren't Leliana?"

"Not exactly?" Alistair rubs his forehead, frowning. "At first, yeah, but later, it seemed like maybe you didn't mind so much."

"Because I didn't," Daylen says.

"Eventually, I know," Alistair says. "Or...I hoped? You did it all the time, and sometimes you would put yourself between me and other people so you could stand next to me. You'd touch me when it would have been easier not to, and after a while, I kind of...forgot to worry about it."

Thank the Maker for at least one small mercy. If Alistair had spent the last few months--the time when Daylen had felt like they were so close--thinking Daylen hated touching him, Daylen would have to abandon any hope he had of there ever being more between them. If he had misread the situation that badly, then he couldn't trust himself on anything to do with Alistair.

"Good." Daylen tries to smile. "I'm glad you didn't worry about it, because you've got it backwards. I didn't touch you because I was in the habit of touching people. It was the other way around: I started doing it for you..."

_"...because you needed it."_

_"...because it made you happy."_

"...because you liked it. It didn't overflow from them onto you, it overflowed from you onto them." His hand itches with the need to touch Alistair now. He keeps it locked firmly around his mug. "Sure, I touch people, but you're the reason I do it so easily. I taught myself to do it for you."

Alistair's head jerks back so hard it hits the piling behind him. "What?"

His expression is a confusing mix of too many emotions, and before Daylen can sort any of them out, a dripping Barkspawn is between them. She drops the stick proudly in Alistair's lap and prances in place, tail wagging. Daylen can practically hear her saying, _"Throw it again, throw it again!"_

By the time Alistair has obliged, Wynne is coming across the yard toward them with Morrigan in her wake, and Daylen curses the lot of them. He can't say their presence is a surprise, though: he knew there wasn't much time before the others were up. They have a long walk ahead of them, and the sooner they start, the sooner they can be done.

Daylen sighs and gulps down the rest of his tea, ignoring the bitterness in favor of appreciating how it washes away most of his exhaustion. There was a good reason Alistair brewed it so strong, and Daylen is grateful, no matter what it tastes like. The taste is irrelevant, anyway: as soon as he's on his feet, Daylen pulls a small vial of lyrium from his belt pouch and downs that, too. The cold burn of that washes away everything else, leaving his mouth and throat tingling, and gives him enough magic to clear away the last of his fatigue.

To his surprise, Alistair hasn't moved. He's still seated against the piling, worrying his lower lip between his teeth and staring out over the lake in the direction he threw Barkspawn's stick. Other than pensiveness, Daylen can't read anything on his face anymore.

"Come on," Daylen says, holding out a hand to help Alistair to his feet. "We should pack up and head out."

For a moment, Alistair looks at that outstretched hand like he has no idea what to do with it, and when he takes it at last, his grip is too light to be useful. Daylen tightens his own grip and braces his feet, and Alistair responds automatically, gripping Daylen's hand and using it to haul himself up.

Once Alistair is on his feet, neither of them lets go immediately. Looking down into Alistair's eyes from so close, Daylen thinks about leaning even closer, about putting his arms around Alistair and burying his face in Alistair's neck. He wants more skin contact than just their clasped hands.

From the far end of the dock, Wynne calls Daylen's name, and he curses her again, silently, as Alistair releases him. Aloud, he says, "I'm going to wash up before we go. See you inside?"

"Yeah," Alistair says distractedly. "My stuff's packed, I'll just wait for Barkspawn."

It sounds entirely reasonable, but when Daylen reaches the end of the dock and looks back, Alistair is staring out over the lake again, his arms crossed over his chest and his shoulders rigid. Somehow, Daylen doesn't think it's Barkspawn he's worrying about.


	14. Don't Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a couple chunks of dialogue swiped from the game, but honestly, I'm hoping those aren't the parts y'all will focus on. Picture me giving you the biggest smile imaginable.
> 
> Cheers!

On their way from Redcliffe to the Circle, Daylen kept them to a steady, measured pace, his desire to be done with Eamon in direct conflict with his desire to avoid Kinloch Hold. Now he has no such problem, and he sets the hardest pace he dares. When they all start to flag, he burns away the exhaustion in a painful rush that drains the last of his magic but lets them push on without stopping.

"Perhaps you'll allow me to do that next time?" Wynne asks. She looks pained, and Daylen doesn't think it's because of their pace.

"Of course," he says, embarrassed to have forgotten that they now have a mage whose healing won't hurt. He's so used to thinking of magic in terms of what he and Morrigan can do, he'd half forgotten that healing magic could be a gentle, soothing thing people didn't dread. If Wynne handles the rejuvenation spell, then no one will be giving Daylen irritated looks as they shake the unpleasant tingling from their hands and feet.

It also means he only needs a bit of lyrium to carry him through, rather than most of what's remaining in his pack. Just as well, since he's already taken so much in the last few days that he's developing a headache, and he still has a demon to face.

They arrive at Redcliffe in the middle of the night, and Daylen is a little disappointed to find no new infestation of walking corpses. He's not in an especially good mood, and it would be nice to set something on fire before he has to deal with Isolde.

Since he can't, he grits his teeth and speaks to her as little as possible. Once he's in the Fade, fighting the demon provides some small relief, and it's easier to deal with Isolde when he's back in the real world. He still doesn't linger in her company, too restless and irritated to deal with her one moment longer than he has to.

The keep is nearly deserted, leaving Daylen free to wander wherever he wants. He ignores politeness and pokes into every nook and cranny, searching Eamon's study with special care. After everything the keep has seen recently, the study is already a mess, and no one will be able to tell Daylen was here.

He flips through Eamon's papers, trying to get a feel for the arl and his politics, and for the kingdom as a whole. Growing up in the Circle leaves Daylen at a distinct disadvantage, now he has to deal with human politics. The elves and the dwarves didn't expect him to know their customs or history; they were impressed if he made it through an entire conversation without revealing his ignorance. Patronizing as that could sometimes be, it gave him a certain amount of leeway he won't have with Ferelden's banns and arls, and he has the sinking feeling he's not going to be free of Eamon any time soon.

The most interesting thing he finds isn't on paper, though, and it has nothing to do with Fereldan politics. It's an amulet, broken and repaired, tucked away so carefully it has to have some personal meaning to Eamon. As Daylen weighs it in his hand, a conversation he once had with Alistair drifts up out of his memory, and he looks the thing over more closely. He doesn't have a good enough description to know if this is the amulet Alistair was telling him about, but it would be a strange coincidence if it isn't.

Daylen hesitates a moment longer, then slips the cord over his head and tucks the amulet under his shirt for safekeeping. If it isn't Alistair's, he can always return it later.

Other than the amulet, he finds enough information to identify the most influential players in Fereldan politics and to draw a rough sketch of the alliances, uneasy and otherwise, between them. If there are any true secrets hidden in Eamon's correspondence, Daylen doesn't know enough to recognize them as such, but he feels slightly less blind than he did before.

Finished with Eamon's study, and with the amulet a heavy weight on his mind if not around his neck, he goes in search of Alistair, only to learn that Alistair has gone to bed. Daylen is momentarily confused, his head so turned around by the long days and his trip to the Fade that he doesn't remember it's the middle of the night until the guard reminds him. Her tone strongly implies he shouldn't be allowed to wander the halls on his own if he can't even keep track of the time of day. Daylen isn't sure she's wrong, and he follows meekly along when she offers to escort him to the room set aside for him.

He sleeps badly, jerked awake a dozen times by nightmares or by the sudden conviction that someone is in the room with him. No one ever is, of course, but reminders of that don't help the next time his heart lurches into a gallop and kicks him out of sleep into disoriented, terrified consciousness. He never comes fully awake, either, his body too tired to allow him space to consider getting out of bed and sparing himself another round of torture. The moment his heart begins to slow and he might manage rational thought, sleep drags him back down into nightmares until the next time imaginary enemies startle him awake.

When he finally comes all the way awake, he's curled in a tight ball in the center of the bed, so tangled in the blankets it's no wonder his last round of dreams involved being tied down. He lies there for too long, wanting to fight his way free but held frozen by panic, until his mind shakes off enough of the terror to allow anger to burn up the rest.

He flings the blankets away and half falls out of bed, landing on hands and knees with a bone-jarring thud. His first attempt to stand nearly drops him on his ass, his legs having apparently not yet noticed that there's nothing to be afraid of. His second attempt is more successful, possibly because he uses the bed to help him and keeps one hand on it as he digs in his pack for clothes, clean or otherwise. Now that he's free of the blankets, getting dressed is the most important thing in the world, as urgent as the need for air after being choked. Being naked means being vulnerable, and the idea of being vulnerable threatens to bring back the terror.

The shaking eases off once he's dressed, but he stays in his room a while longer anyway, pacing back and forth to help settle his thoughts. He was fine last night before he went to sleep, and he's not going to let something as harmless as nightmares throw him off balance, not now. He made it through Kinloch Hold, for the Maker's sake. If he can look Greagoir in the eye and make demands like he doesn't remember every single shameful demand Greagoir ever made of him, then he can bloody well get himself together after a few bad dreams.

He can, and he will.

It takes an annoyingly long time, but eventually, he wrestles his emotions back into some semblance of order. Every inhale gives him a little more control, and every exhale blows out a little more of the fear, until he has everything shut away again where it belongs. There are plenty of things to be afraid of, but he's not likely to face any of them today, and even if he was, fear does nothing except make him helpless.

He casts around for a distraction and grabs on to a handful of memories of Alistair from the last week. So many things have happened so close together, Daylen hasn't had time to think through any of them, but now he's putting them together into a very promising picture. Maybe there will be time today for the two of them to talk. Maybe, after their conversation on the dock outside the Spoiled Princess, Alistair understands how important he is to Daylen. Maybe the fear Daylen has seen in the past will be gone, or will turn out to be something easily laid to rest: fear of rejection, perhaps, or fear of being mocked for his inexperience.

Daylen carries those maybes with him like a shield and goes out to see if he can make them into something more, but he's sidetracked almost immediately by the discovery that it's nearly noon. Everyone else has been awake for hours, and they're all waiting on him.

"Alistair wouldn't let us wake you," Leliana says as Daylen eats a hasty "breakfast." Her lips are pressed tightly together, but it doesn't quite hide her smile.

Daylen pretends to ignore her. It's the only way he can stop himself from looking at Alistair, who's seated on his other side and putting more food on his plate every time it's less than half full. Excitement is beginning to burn in Daylen's chest, twisted through with fear: if he's wrong about Alistair's feelings for him, he could lose the closest and best friend he's ever had.

If he's right...

"Eamon wanted to see us?" he asks Leliana. He could be absolutely sure Alistair was interested, and he still wouldn't start that conversation with their entire party and half of Redcliffe's remaining guards looking on.

Eamon does, in fact, want to see them, or at least, he wants to see Daylen and Alistair. Other than Barkspawn, who trots along at their heels without invitation, the others seem happy to go about their own business, business that doesn't involve Eamon. Daylen envies them that.

The discussion is brief, Eamon still too weak for long conversations, but it gives Daylen the broad outlines of what comes next. As little as he likes politics, he recognizes it as a necessary evil at this point, just as he recognizes Eamon as too valuable an ally to alienate.

That means Daylen has to be polite, not that Daylen has to like him, and when Eamon asks to speak to Alistair alone, Daylen balks.

"I don't-" he starts, but he cuts himself off when Alistair gives a small shake of his head.

"It's fine," Alistair says, in a tone that says it isn't. "I'll come find you later."

Daylen struggles with himself before he says grudgingly, "I'll be down by the docks." As a concession to the part of him that doesn't want to leave Alistair alone with Eamon, Daylen looks at Barkspawn and says, "Stay with him."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Alistair smile briefly. Too briefly. Daylen hopes they're done with all of this soon, so he can stop being polite to Eamon.

To spare himself the embarrassment of being caught listening at the study door, he collects Sten and heads down into Redcliffe village. Sten, unsurprisingly, doesn't ask where they're going or why, and Daylen doesn't tell him. Better not to get his hopes up. There was a lot going on during the fight in the village, and it's entirely possible Daylen didn't see what he thought he saw. But he knows he heard a familiar name, and he wants to find out if he somehow really is that lucky.

He is.

Sten's reserve doesn't break when Daylen hands him his sword; he just sighs like he's come home and lain down in his own bed after months away. "Strange," he murmurs, staring at the sword, "I had almost forgotten how it felt to be complete."

The old, cold voice of practicality has several disparaging things to say about that. Daylen ignores it, knowing how he would feel if Alistair disappeared from his life. Maybe Sten has the right idea in depending so much on a thing rather than a person: a sword has no will of its own, and it can't get upset by anything Sten says or does.

"I do not know any words in your language for this." Sten's voice is as calm and stoic as ever, but he's gripping the hilt of his sword so hard his knuckles are white.

Daylen takes an equally firm grip on his sarcasm and says, "You're welcome."

One thing Daylen has learned to appreciate about Sten's bluntness: when a conversation is finished, it's finished. There's no awkward lingering, no need to say good-bye five different ways, or talk longer for no reason other than to show that he cares. He can show Sten he cares by going away, and sometimes that has its charms.

He waves farewell and strides purposefully as far as the village square before he realizes that he doesn't know where he's going. Other than staying near the docks so Alistair can find him, there's nowhere Daylen needs to be and no one he needs to find. For the first time in days...for the first time in _months_ , he has nothing to do. He feels like an unmoored boat without a crew, drifting and directionless.

Lacking any better idea, he wanders down the longest dock. If he doesn't turn around, he can see nothing but water and sky, with a faraway curve of shoreline at the edge of his vision. The view is too inviting to resist, so Daylen pulls off his boots and sits on the end of the dock, his feet dangling in the water. The position reminds him uncomfortably of Kinloch Hold for a moment, but he sets that aside as best he can. If he shuts his eyes, he can pretend Alistair and Barkspawn are here with him, close enough to touch if he wants to.

That waking dream is comforting for a while, but the longer he sits with no sign of Alistair, the more he worries. Whatever Eamon wanted, it's probably nothing that will be good for Alistair and thus nothing Daylen wants Eamon to have. How long does Daylen have to wait before he can return to the keep and interrupt, without feeling like he's going back on his implied promise to Alistair? He agreed to let Eamon and Alistair talk, he didn't agree to let Eamon have the entire day to pressure Alistair into whatever Eamon thinks is best.

Just about the time Daylen is giving serious thought to the excuse he'll use to drag Alistair away from Eamon, he hears a familiar bark behind him. He scrambles to his feet, wanting his head well above Barkspawn's reach as she runs down the dock like it's been months instead of hours since she last saw him. Alistair trails behind her, a smile pasted onto his face over obvious tension.

"Wynne wanted to look at my shoulder," Alistair says, as soon as he's close enough and before Daylen can ask. "Sorry, I didn't realize it would take so long."

Daylen has a vague memory of asking her to do that, but then there had been the race back to Redcliffe, and it's been months since the injury anyway. Even Daylen could admit that looking at it didn't need to be anyone's immediate priority, at least while there was still a demon to deal with. It's nice to know Wynne remembered, though.

"Did she have anything to say?"

"She said it's completely healed," Alistair says. He touches the shoulder in question, cupping the joint and rubbing idly at it. "She said if it wasn't for the scar, she'd never have guessed I'd been shot."

It's more of a relief than Daylen expected, fears dissipating that he hadn't known he was carrying until they began to fade. He hadn't wrecked Alistair's shoulder in some subtle way, or created a problem that might put in an appearance at the worst moment. There are still plenty of ways for Alistair to be hurt or killed, but at least Daylen didn't make them worse.

"That's good," he says, smiling at Alistair.

Alistair's return smile is wooden, and tension still radiates off him.

Daylen bends down to pet Barkspawn, who's dancing eagerly around him. Conveniently, it also hides his face as he asks, "So, what did Eamon want?"

"What else?" Alistair says. "He wants me to be king."

By his tone, that makes it a foregone conclusion. Daylen's eyes narrow, and Barkspawn tilts her head at him in concern.

"Has anything changed?" Daylen asks without looking up. "Do you want to be king?"

"No," Alistair says emphatically.

"Then you won't be." Now Daylen straightens, so Alistair can see how serious he is. "I won't let it happen."

By all rights, Alistair should laugh at the idea of a mage successfully opposing an arl over something so important. Alistair does not laugh, and Daylen loves him a little more for it.

Love.

The word shivers through Daylen, a boulder dropped into a pool of water, changing the shape of everything even if the water is still there. It's a terrible idea, promising pain as surely as any templar ever did, but he doesn't try to deny it. It would be a lie, and besides, has the word itself really changed anything? That rock didn't so much crash down as roll gradually, and his chance to avoid being crushed by it disappeared long before today.

Daylen pushes those thoughts away. He won't deny them, but he doesn't have to share them with anyone else.

Instead, he says to Alistair, "You're not going to be king." He says the words like they're a spell, like his will is enough to bend the world. After all, he has three treaties that say it is, and he hopes to have a fourth soon.

"Thanks," Alistair says quietly. The tension is draining out of him, and Daylen relaxes with him.

Barkspawn takes that moment to lick his hand and remind him she's still there. He glances back down at her, into hopeful brown eyes begging for his attention, and he can't help but smile.

At his smile, she gives a soft bark and wriggles happily.

"Fool dog," Daylen says to her affectionately. He cups her head between his hands and shakes it gently back and forth, crooning happy nonsense into her face from just outside licking range.

The movement shifts the cord around his neck, reminding him of the amulet he found last night, and he straightens abruptly. "I wanted to ask you something," he says to Alistair, fishing under the collar of his shirt to find the cord.

Alistair gives him a look that's far too wary for such an innocuous statement, and Daylen curses Eamon for the hundredth time. Not even a full day since the man woke up, and he's already got Alistair fidgeting with anxiety. Daylen is going to have to do what he can to keep the two of them separate as much as possible from now on.

He's no longer sure it's such a good idea to show Alistair the amulet, but he has the thing in his hand, and he'll be hard-pressed to think of a plausible lie now. "I found this in the keep, and I wondered if it was yours." He holds out the amulet to Alistair, who takes it with a puzzled frown. "I remember you telling me about..."

He trails off, because Alistair's eyes went wide as soon as he got a good look at what he has. Now he's staring at it in his palm, and his voice cracks in surprise as he says, "This is my mother's amulet!"

It glints in the afternoon sunlight as he turns it between his fingers, and he shakes his head slowly, as if he can't believe it. "I mean, it has to be," he adds, sounding less sure, "but why isn't it broken?" He rubs his thumb over it, tracing the lines where it was glued back together, then looks up at Daylen. "Where did you find it?"

"In the keep," Daylen says. He doesn't want to lie to Alistair, but he's also not sure he should admit to ransacking Eamon's study. As a compromise, he adds, "Near Eamon's study."

Alistair lets out a soft breath, not quite a sigh and not quite "ha." His hand closes tightly around the amulet, and he stares at his fist, still looking shocked. "He must have found it after I threw it at the wall." His voice shades into bemusement. "And repaired it." Then, with quiet wonder, "And kept it."

Daylen adds another tally to the list of Eamon's crimes, that Alistair would find it nearly impossible to believe anyone might do something so small for him. Eamon hadn't even bothered to send it to him.

"Thank you," Alistair says, and there are tears in his eyes when he meets Daylen's gaze again. "I mean it. I thought I'd lost this to my own stupidity."

_"Eamon doesn't deserve you,"_ Daylen wants to say, but instead, he sticks with, "Then I'm glad I found it."

"I can't believe you remembered me mentioning it," Alistair says, opening his hand to stare at the amulet again.

"It was important to you," Daylen says. "Of course I remembered."

Alistair gives him a searching look. It's the perfect opportunity to return to their interrupted conversation from a few days ago, but fear leaps up again, sudden and sharp. Daylen's heart begins to race, thudding so hard it turns his stomach and makes his face and hands burn cold. He can't think beyond the need to hide before something catches him.

Anger saves him as it has so often, though usually it's not anger at himself. What in the Maker's name is wrong with him today? He used to struggle with fear like this, these bursts of irrational terror at moments when it made no sense, but it's been years since the last one, and there's no reason for them to come back now.

_Stop it,_ he tells himself sternly, like he's telling Barkspawn to drop one of Leliana's boots.

His lungs unlock, and he controls that first breath to make it seem natural rather than a gasp for air. "What else do you need to do today?" he asks Alistair. It doesn't matter if it's an inane question. Anything to break the silence and give him another moment to recover.

"Nothing," Alistair says, looking back down at the amulet. "Which is very weird. I feel like there has to be something I'm forgetting to do."

"Maker, yes," Daylen says. "We could help re-roof some houses, I guess. Find a lost sheep or two." For once, he's the one babbling, and he gets hold of himself. "I'm sure someone needs _something_ done."

"But not from me," Alistair says with deep satisfaction, finally dropping the hand holding the amulet. "And it's too bloody hot to ask for work when I don't have to."

"At least there's a breeze out here," Daylen protests. "It's not so bad."

"Yes, it is so bad," Alistair says. "I'm not even doing anything and I'm sweating."

"We could go swimming," Daylen says. It's the only thing he can think of, since arguing it isn't grossly hot would be a blatant lie.

"Oh, no." Alistair holds up his hands to ward Daylen off. "I know how cold that lake is, and there's no way I'm putting more than my feet in." He bends to start unlacing his boots. "Though that part's a good idea."

"It's not that cold," Daylen says, knowing that it probably is. He grew up swimming in the waters around Kinloch Hold. Lake Calenhad is so large, the templars never concerned themselves with the mages learning to swim, and Daylen has more good memories of the lake than anywhere else on the island.

The last wave of terror is too recent, and the reminder of Kinloch Hold triggers a faint echo of it, a swell of fear that tightens Daylen's stomach without overwhelming him. To cover it, he adds cheerfully, "And it's better than this heat, right?"

"No, not right," Alistair says, trying and failing to look offended. He has one boot off and has moved on to the other. "Not even a little bit right. The opposite of right."

"Come on!" Daylen takes a small step back, mindful of the end of the dock less than a foot behind him, and fights his way free of his sweat-soaked shirt. "It'll be fun."

Alistair is unmoved. "I'm going to remind you about that when your lips turn blue."

"And I'm going to remind you about _that_ when you're sweating to death while I'm not."

Since the best way to get the last word is to end the conversation while he's at least nominally ahead, Daylen takes another step backward off the end of the dock.

The water closes over his head, colder than he remembered as it enfolds him in silence broken only by the dull thud of his heart in his ears. He lets himself float down, comforted by the quiet weightlessness, until his feet brush the weeds and soft mud at the bottom. Then he kicks off, angling himself up and away from the dock so that he breaks the surface without risking his head.

He tries not to shiver visibly as he wipes water from his face.

"How is it?" Alistair calls. He's standing at the end of the dock now, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Daylen tread water.

"A little cold," Daylen admits. Alistair, he notices, has finished taking off his boots and is no longer wearing his shirt. "You should come on-"

An evil grin spreads across Alistair's face, and Daylen has just enough time to gulp a quick breath before Alistair launches himself off the dock. Alistair tucks himself into a tight ball and hits the lake like a rock, displacing an amazing amount of water and creating a wave large enough to swamp Daylen.

Rather than surface, he locates Alistair by the lyrium in his blood and swims straight toward him, dragging him down by one ankle and then swimming quickly away again. Only then does he stick his head up for air, grinning at the sound of Alistair laughing and swearing at him.

Another large wave washes over him, this time catching him by surprise. He's coughing water from his lungs when Barkspawn reaches him and begins to lick his face, which doesn't help at all. Both because he can't breathe when her tongue is covering his face, and because he can't breathe when he's laughing.

"Go!" he says, the word muffled by the hand he's trying to use to shield his face. "Go away, I know where that tongue has been!"

Alistair is laughing so hard it's a wonder he isn't drowning. Daylen points in the direction of the sound and says to Barkspawn, "Go lick him, he likes it!"

Obediently, she gives him a last swipe and paddles over to Alistair, who makes no effort to dodge. While she's distracted, Daylen ducks under the surface again and scrubs at his face. He can feel the ripples as Barkspawn and Alistair mock-fight, little swirls of colder water stirred up from deeper in the lake. He knows from experience that the chill up here is nothing compared to what he'd find even ten feet down.

Back on the surface, he flips onto his back and floats aimlessly, hands laced behind his head, while Barkspawn and Alistair chase each other around. He would envy them their energy, if that wasn't too exhausting after the last few weeks. It's nice to just listen to them play, his eyes shut against the sun as the water rocks him gently back and forth. The world might end in blood and pain tomorrow, but today, it's not such a bad place to be.

When they grow bored, Alistair and Barkspawn swim out to him. Their intent is clear, a mock-threat that almost triggers the fear again, but Daylen is ready for it. He pushes it away, relieved that this time he closes the door on it before it can grab him.

"If you're thinking about splashing me," Daylen warns Alistair and Barkspawn, "remember what I can do with water."

He very deliberately does not tell them no.

They exchange a look so much like they're both human that it makes Daylen laugh. He's still laughing when they split, Barkspawn going left and Alistair right.

Daylen lands one good hit on each of them, his magic sending the water further and with better accuracy than his hands ever could, before they reach him and it's all over. The two of them together are more than a match for him, physically stronger and better trained for this kind of fight, and used to working together in the thick of a melee. He wouldn't have a chance even if he was willing to hurt them, not now that he's allowed them in close.

Months ago, it would have frightened or angered him to be so helpless against them, and he waits for the fear that's hit him so often today. It doesn't come, though. They could subdue or kill him out here without half trying, but they're not trying, and they never would. The others fight for him, and he trusts them to greater or lesser degrees. Barkspawn and Alistair would stand between him and the entire darkspawn army, and that knowledge is there under every playful shove and mock-growl.

By the time he surrenders, laughing, they're all out of breath, Daylen most of all. He slings one arm across Barkspawn's back and the other around Alistair's shoulders, letting them take most of his weight and giving only the occasional desultory kick to help.

"You can swim," Alistair objects without trying to escape. "You swim better than I do."

"I do," Daylen agrees. "Did you have a point?"

"I guess not," Alistair says with a put-upon sigh. One of his hands is resting on Barkspawn's flank, so that he's almost hugging Daylen, even though it means his other arm has to work harder to keep their heads above water. It doesn't seem to be bothering him.

They float like that a while, letting the lake's currents carry them. Alistair's hand slips gradually off Barkspawn and into the water, coming to rest against Daylen's ribs and turning the almost-hug into a real one. Whether by chance or design, they end up angled halfway toward each other, so close together Daylen can rest his forehead against Alistair's temple. Between Alistair's arms and Barkspawn's body, Daylen is almost entirely surrounded, and it's comforting. Safe, the way he so rarely is.

Barkspawn, Void take her, chooses that moment to nose at Alistair's ear. He yelps and recoils--Daylen can hardly blame him--upsetting their precarious balance and dropping both of them all the way into the lake in an ungainly tangle of arms and legs. Daylen comes up spitting water, unsure if he resents the interruption or is grateful he didn't have the chance to be tempted to try something more, in clear view of half the inhabitants of the village.

Alistair surfaces a few feet away and levels an accusatory finger at Barkspawn. "That was mean."

Daylen can't help it: he snickers. "Was her nose cold?"

"A little," Alistair says sarcastically, rubbing a hand over his ear. He looks like he feels much the same as Daylen, caught between relief and annoyance. Nothing Daylen is willing to pursue out here, though. Never mind potential witnesses, he has no desire to risk drowning them.

"Speaking of cold," he says, "I'm starting to forget what my," several options go through his head, and he picks the one least likely to embarrass Alistair, "toes feel like."

"It took this long?" Alistair asks. "I've forgotten what my whole body feels like."

In the middle of turning around to swim toward the dock, Daylen gets a mouthful of water and nearly chokes.

_"I could help with that."_ He doesn't dare look at Alistair as they head back toward shore.

They haven't drifted too far from the dock, and it isn't long before they're dragging themselves up onto it. Barkspawn has to go up the muddy bank, bringing what seems like half of it with her onto dry land. By the time Daylen has poured enough water over her that they probably won't be banned from the keep for bringing a mud-covered mabari into it, he's no longer in danger of making inappropriate jokes about which parts of Alistair's body he'd like to feel.

"If you get muddy again and they won't let you into the keep," Daylen warns Barkspawn, "you'll have to live with it. Even if that means sleeping in the kennels tonight."

She turns her back on him pointedly, takes three steps, darts back to lick his hand, and then trots off to investigate the village's smells. Watching her go, Daylen smiles.

"You're such a liar," Alistair says.

The words are muffled, since he's currently lying prone on the dock with his forehead resting on the backs of his hands. He hasn't put his shirt back on, Daylen can't help but note, and his wet trousers leave very little to the imagination.

"Well, don't tell her that," Daylen says, trying to find something to look at that isn't Alistair. For all there are plenty of options, somehow his eyes continually return to the dip at the small of Alistair's back. Daylen can practically feel warm skin under his palm.

They should talk.

He doesn't want to talk.

They should probably do it anyway.

A part of him recognizes it as a terrible idea, but he walks back down the dock to lie beside Alistair. The boards are warm, and the sun is no longer directly overhead like a firestorm about to land on them. It's still meltingly hot, but with no work to do and a dock to melt into, it feels good after the chill of the lake.

Drowsy from the heat, Daylen shifts enough to reach Alistair's head and run careful fingers through his hair. It's already dry, the short strands soft between his fingers. Alistair pushes into the touch, and Daylen leaves off combing his hair in favor of rubbing his scalp. Daylen is floating inside, as if still buoyed up by the water, and distantly aroused, the way he sometimes is when he wakes from the better sort of dream.

The angle of his arm strains his shoulder after a while, and it's natural to shift to a more comfortable position. What does it matter if that means draping his arm across Alistair's shoulders, his hand curled around the back of Alistair's neck and his cheek resting on Alistair's upper arm? He wants to be close to Alistair, closer even than this, and Alistair doesn't seem to mind: he's shifting his arm to give Daylen a more comfortable place to put his head.

Alistair turns to face him, resting his cheek on the backs of his hands. The two of them are almost nose to nose, Alistair's breath cooler than the air around them as it brushes Daylen's lips and cheeks. Still floating inside, Daylen runs his hand down Alistair's back, feeling muscle and skin shift under the touch.

There's just enough thought left in his head to stop him at the waist of Alistair's trousers but not enough to stop him completely. His hand slides back up to the nape of Alistair's neck and then down again, too slow and gentle now for him to pretend it's anything except a caress. He can't stop himself, not when Alistair is warm and relaxed against him, and certainly not when Alistair hums in pleasure as Daylen's hand pauses to rub circles at the small of his back.

The third time Daylen strokes down Alistair's back, it's nothing but the pads of his fingers along Alistair's spine. Alistair's hips flex against the dock beneath him, his lips parting on a sigh, and when he opens his eyes to meet Daylen's, his gaze is soft and sleepy. No fear there, not now, just warmth to match the faint curve of his smile.

It's the smile that undoes the last of Daylen's resolve.

He kisses the corner of Alistair's mouth, barely more than a brush of lips the first time, then more firmly when Alistair turns his head to meet the next one. Daylen's earlier, distant arousal isn't distant anymore; it's spreading through his whole body, bringing with it a mindless need to be closer to Alistair, as close physically as he feels in every other way, with no space or walls between them. Every shield and defense he normally hides behind is gone, and he doesn't miss them, doesn't want them back or fear what will happen without them.

Alistair turns his whole body, bringing them chest to chest so his shoulder is no longer in the way and Daylen's mouth can land squarely on his. The unexpectedness of that is a shock Daylen feels everywhere, the burn of arousal almost painful. In the first hot rush of it, he doesn't know whether Alistair's mouth opens wider in surprise or in welcome, but a moment later, there's no mistaking the slide of his tongue or the way he presses forward with a groan that vibrates through both of them. Breathless, Daylen pushes him onto his back and follows him over, shoving one knee between his thighs and burying both hands in his hair. Alistair groans again, hands clutching at Daylen's hips, and Maker, Daylen has never felt anything so perfect as this.

But some tiny, unwanted shred of self-preservation has him breaking the kiss, about two decades before he's ready to be done. Alistair leans up to chase his mouth, and that's almost more than Daylen can take: Alistair pressing closer, gasping for breath and trying to recapture his mouth. It would be so easy to stay like this, to kiss Alistair until it hurts, to slide a hand into his trousers and stroke his cock--even now growing hard where it's pressed against Daylen's thigh--until he begs to be allowed to come.

"Not here," Daylen manages to say, burying his face in Alistair's neck to prevent Alistair kissing him and completely wrecking his control. Except that puts him in the way of a different temptation, one that's been in his fantasies for longer than he cares to admit.

He keeps the first bite gentle, more an open-mouthed kiss with a scrape of teeth, and traces the muscle between shoulder and neck with his tongue rather than bite again. He intends to stop there, he really does, but Alistair tips his head back in an invitation too blatant to resist, and Daylen forgets where they are, forgets that a moment ago he'd been trying to move them somewhere more private, forgets everything except the taste of Alistair's skin and the sound he makes when Daylen bites him. Still gentle, but it's a real bite this time, hard enough to leave behind an imprint of teeth that Daylen can feel with his tongue.

"Maker," Alistair whispers. "Fuck, more, pl-"

The word cuts off as Daylen bites down again. He lingers over the bite this time, sucking and licking at the skin between his teeth until Alistair whimpers. They're both panting for breath, and it's physically impossible for Alistair to tilt his head back any further but he keeps trying anyway, little jerks of his chin that echo the rocking of his hips as he grinds against Daylen's thigh. His hands move like he can't keep them still, stroking roughly over Daylen's back in arcs that grow longer and longer, until one of them reaches the top of Daylen's spine and his fingers spread wide to cup Daylen's head.

Those frantic movements make it all the more jarring when he suddenly, inexplicably, freezes. It pulls Daylen up short and clears his head in a prickling, unpleasant rush that helps him think but doesn't tell him what the problem is. Alistair's frozen silence isn't any more helpful.

Bracing a hand against the dock, Daylen pushes himself up far enough to get a good look at Alistair's face, and as soon as he sees it, the heat in his stomach turns cold. There's fear in Alistair's eyes again, the same fear Daylen has seen too many times, and now stronger than ever.

Daylen scrambles back and off Alistair, unable to stay in that position on top of anyone looking at him like that. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." He doesn't sound fine. He sounds as not-fine as he looks.

"What's wrong?" Daylen asks more urgently, but dread is creeping in, because he thinks he knows.

"Nothing," Alistair says. "I just...I mean, are you...is this...all right?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Fear gives the question an edge. Daylen can see the blow coming, and he doesn't know how to stop it.

Over the years, other people have given him the same look Alistair is wearing now, full of a paralyzing fear of doing or saying the wrong thing, but it didn't matter then. They didn't matter. And if he tries, Daylen can remember Alistair treating him gingerly on occasion, but never like this. If Alistair walked wide around certain subjects, it seemed more like respect for a friend's wishes, like the same concern he would feel over hurting any of the others. Never this near-terror at the thought of making a mistake, like Daylen will shatter, has already shattered and now Alistair has to move with the greatest care to avoid stepping on the pieces.

After the warmth and closeness of a moment ago, seeing that look on Alistair's face feels like being dragged to the bottom of the lake, down into the cold and the dark. Maybe at another time, in another place, Daylen would be able to step back from the fear, and the anger that rushes up automatically to cover it, but he wasn't prepared. He's less prepared than he's been since he was a child, and _this_. This is why he built those walls. This is why he shouldn't ever step out from behind them, or let anyone else inside: because whenever the blow eventually falls, there won't be anything to stop it.

"You...ummm..." Alistair sits up slowly, his eyes never leaving Daylen's. "You don't have to, you know."

"Don't have to what?" Fucking Andraste, why is he forcing Alistair to say it? Daylen already feels like he's been stabbed, why is he twisting the knife in his own gut?

"Don't have to...ummm." Alistair gestures between the two of them, looking momentarily awkward and embarrassed. "Don't have to kiss me. Or anything."

"I'm aware," Daylen says. "I don't recall anyone saying that I did."

The embarrassment fades from Alistair's face, and his hand twitches toward Daylen before he catches himself. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to because of...other things."

_"Say it."_ The words hover on the tip of Daylen's tongue. _"Say I'm broken and be done with it."_

It's written all over Alistair's face, and the sight of it hurts worse than Daylen could have imagined. Alistair has always treated him like a whole person, but that look makes it into a lie, a lie he's been telling for months. Memories surface of every time Daylen stood too close and saw fear in Alistair's eyes, and every one is like a blow.

If Alistair wasn't interested, Daylen could have lived with that. It was frustrating, sometimes painfully so, but in the end, someone else's preference in partners was nothing to do with him. But for Alistair to want him, maybe all this time, and give no hint because he was afraid Daylen was too scared and broken to tell him no?

_"Is that who you see when you look at me?"_

For one of the few times in his life, Daylen feels ashamed of being the way he is. The way the templars made him. Alistair deserves someone who isn't a human version of the Gauntlet, a mess of traps and puzzles and too many unpleasant reminders of the past.

_Which would be nearly anyone except you,_ the voice in the back of Daylen's head points out.

Fury burns away the pain, and with it, the fear of more pain, the heat a blessed relief after the icy chill that was trying to settle in the pit of Daylen's stomach. He's not broken, and he won't let anyone treat him like he is. He didn't let the templars win, and maybe-- _maybe_ \--they would have eventually if Duncan hadn't come along, but the fact is that they didn't. Daylen survived them, and he doesn't need anyone's pity, least of all a templar's-

Even in the midst of his rage, Daylen shies back from that thought. Not a templar. Alistair has never been a templar, and to call him one is every bit as wrong as Alistair calling him broken.

Daylen keeps the anger on a short leash, but his voice is still tight as he says, "I don't need you to protect me from myself. Or from anyone else."

"I just don't want to hurt you," Alistair says. It's clear from his expression that he knows he's said something wrong but has no idea what it was, and Daylen hates himself all over again for putting that expression on Alistair's face. Another item for the list of things Alistair deserves: someone who isn't angry all the time.

_And again,_ the voice in his head says dryly, _that would be anyone but you._

Then the anger burns away that pain, too. "I don't need you to protect me from you, either," Daylen says, biting off each word. "I know how to protect myself."

He's on his feet now, with no memory of how he got there but glad that he is. He needs to get away from Alistair before he says something unforgivable, the rage spewing forth to burn down not only their friendship but also any self-respect Alistair might have, now or ever again. The words to destroy him are there, all the weak places in Alistair's armor ready to be exploited.

As if Daylen doesn't know himself to be the biggest of those.

That knowledge is the only thing that lets him shove all the hateful words aside to say instead, "We can talk about this later." Daylen tries a smile but abandons the effort when Alistair flinches back from it. "Maybe tomorrow. I..."

All the things he does and doesn't want to say tangle together, wrapped up in too many contradictory emotions. There's something he needs to say, because this is Alistair and Daylen does know what will hurt him, but the anger won't let him say it directly. He'll have to come at it sideways instead.

Eyes fixed on a point past Alistair's ear, Daylen says stiffly, "I promised you two things after Orzammar. After you were shot." He breathes deeply through his nose and forces the rest of it past the anger. "I haven't forgotten either of them."

Please, Maker, let Alistair remember them, too. It's possible he won't, and the one Daylen most needs him to remember is also the one he's most likely to have forgotten.

_"I'll try not to fall off any more cliffs if you promise not to do that again,"_ Alistair had said, indicating Daylen's leg and the terrible healing he'd done in his haste to get to Alistair. And they had shaken on it and called it a deal.

Alistair was alert and past the worst of the healing at that point. If he only remembers one promise, it will be that one. Will he remember the one Daylen made him when he was still weak and in pain? Will he remember the important one?

_"If I **can** come back, I will. I won't ever just walk away and leave you."_

Daylen has to hope Alistair remembers, because he's afraid to open his mouth again for fear of what might come out.

Jaw clenched against every hateful word trying to escape, Daylen turns on his heel and strides down the dock, away from Alistair. He doesn't know if they can salvage anything from the wreckage they've just made of their friendship, but he won't leave Alistair wondering if he's yet another person who will walk away and never come back. He just needs time and a little distance to put his walls back where they belong so that Alistair's pity no longer matters.

Maybe, if Daylen keeps control of himself and the conversation, they can even pretend this afternoon never happened. He knows the memory of it will taint their friendship, but it was going to do that anyway; all he wants now is to avoid seeing that look on Alistair's face ever again.

Later, though. That conversation will have to be later, after Daylen remembers how to shield himself from Alistair. It's been so long since Alistair was outside the walls, Daylen is going to need some time to practice.


	15. The Things I'm Most Afraid Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thing one: trigger warning for threats of rape in this chapter. I don't think it's too graphic, but it is very much there.
> 
> Thing two: work has been crazy and isn't likely to get better this month. Rather than fool myself that I'll be able to do a chapter a week, I'm just going to say right now: we're going down to an update every two weeks. I'm trying to learn to actually do a reasonable assessment of my own abilities, rather than continuing with "it'll be fine, it'll be fine!" until it falls on my head. I'm told that's a thing people do.
> 
> For those who care, this chapter puts us at just shy of the two-thirds mark, by wordcount.

The problem, Daylen soon learns, is that he doesn't have nearly as much control over later as he used to.

He spends the rest of the day alone in his room, wearing a path in the floor as he paces back and forth in the vain hope it will help him think. He's angrier than he's been since before Ostagar, an indiscriminate anger that incinerates everything in its path. He's angry at the templars, and at every mage who tried to teach him, however unintentionally, that he can't ever be anything except a victim. He's angry at himself, both for how he treated Alistair this afternoon and for that moment where he thought of himself as broken. And he's angry at Alistair for treating him like he's fragile after everything Daylen has done, for reminding Daylen that he is broken and patched back together-

No. No, he is _not_. The templars did their best to break him, and maybe he wasn't entirely whole by the time he left the Circle, but he isn't broken

His anger at Alistair burns hotter, which only makes him angrier at himself. He happens to be on the opposite side of the room from anything small enough to throw, and he has just enough control not to go looking for things to break. Satisfying as it would be in the short term, there's nothing in his packs that he can afford to destroy. After almost a year on the road, his possessions have been pared down to the practical essentials, and he's not going to waste even one potion on something as petty as his own temper.

So he takes out his rage on the floor, and by morning, he's worn himself down to a sullen anger that's easy enough to swallow. It will help him keep other emotions at bay, which is all to the good. He's braced and ready to pretend everything is fine when he heads down to the dining hall for breakfast.

If he'd realized those would be his last quiet moments for weeks, he might have chosen to spend them a little differently. Quite possibly packing so he could run away.

It starts innocuously enough, with a conversation over breakfast about the best route to take to Denerim and how many soldiers should accompany them. It's natural to follow Eamon to his office so they can refer to various maps, and just as natural for several of Eamon's advisors to join them. That discussion flows logically enough into a discussion about broader strategies, both military and political, and Daylen barely notices the day passing. By the time he leaves Eamon's office, his head spinning from everything he's learned, it's too late at night to do anything except fall into bed.

The following days are no better. Eamon seems determined to drag him into every council meeting and planning session, as if to punish Daylen for blocking his attempts to push Alistair toward the throne. Daylen tries to learn everything while looking like he already knows it, unsure if he dares show how far out of his depth he is. Which is better, to risk looking arrogant or ignorant? On the road with his companions, he knows which he would have chosen, but here, the lone mage among nobles twice his age and with real experience at war? Impossible to say.

He tries to stay quiet during the inevitable debates, but no one else is willing to allow it. They want his opinion on a dozen things he doesn't understand, as if he has any idea where to place cavalry for best advantage or how many extra bowstrings the archers might need. He's been fighting the darkspawn as one of a small group, not as the commander of an army. No one bothers teaching logistics to mages, and a group of less than a dozen people measures its food stores in barrels and bags, not in wagonloads.

As the days pass in a blur of planning, he begins to learn tactics that hide his ignorance even better than silence. It turns out that simply continuing to ask "why?" like a small child, mixed with an occasional thoughtful hum and a slow nod, nearly always walks people toward their own answer. To his bemusement, it even begins to give him a reputation for perceptiveness and intelligence, and once started, that reputation feeds on itself. People see what they want to see, he's known that for a long time, but this is the first time in his life he's been a beneficiary rather than a casualty of that tendency.

Still, none of it leaves him time for a private conversation with Alistair. They pass in the hall or see each other at meals--when Daylen's aren't eaten while standing over Eamon's map of Ferelden--but there's always someone else nearby. Daylen hates the strained politeness of their brief exchanges, and yet he's also guiltily relieved for every excuse to postpone a conversation he doesn't want to have anyway. Maybe, if he puts it off long enough, they'll settle into this new, more distant relationship and he'll never have to face Alistair's pity again.

At night in his room, sitting by the fire with Barkspawn's head on his knee, the empty place where Alistair should be is a silent reminder of all the other things he also won't have again.

The one time Daylen finds himself at loose ends when his head isn't aching from endless strategy meetings, he makes himself go in search of Alistair. He's easy enough to find, it turns out, except that he isn't alone. He's in Redcliffe's courtyard, deep in conversation with Zevran while Barkspawn drools on his boots. The conversation is so clearly private that the sight is almost physically painful; Daylen isn't used to Alistair excluding him from anything. He knows it's unfair, but the pain doesn't lessen for the reminder that he gave up any claim on Alistair's confidences.

Whatever Alistair and Zevran are discussing, they're both intent on it, to the point of ignoring anyone who isn't close enough to overhear. They're sitting so close Daylen might wonder if Zevran had returned to the aborted seduction he tried that first night in camp, except there's nothing flirtatious in his body language, and Alistair looks more like a student at lessons than a man being seduced. Still, the intimacy of it bothers Daylen, and the fact that it does bothers him even more.

He watches them for a moment, then turns and walks back the way he came. Maybe Eamon's library has some books on military strategy he could read until someone needs him again. If the last week has taught him anything, it's that he won't have to wait long.

###

Denerim as a hunted and destitute fugitive is a very different place than Denerim as part of an arl's retinue. That money buys respect and comfort isn't a shock to Daylen, only that it extends to a mage clearly outside the Circle's control. People bow and scrape to him nearly as much as they do to Eamon, and it makes him ten times as uncomfortable as he thought it would.

He doesn't have much time to think about it. The Landsmeet is less than two weeks away, and he spends every waking moment trying to charm or intimidate various nobles. Neither comes naturally to him, though intimidation is easier. An angry mage, it turns out, makes many people very nervous. There are plenty of occasions on which all he has to do is sit beside Eamon and scowl.

When he isn't trying to secure votes for the Landsmeet, he's trying to think who he'll ask them to cast their votes _for_. He won't put Alistair forward, not for anything, but who does that leave? Eamon, perhaps? It galls Daylen to consider Eamon as king of Ferelden, rewarded for neglecting his duty as an arl and as a decent person, but better Eamon than Alistair. And if not Eamon, then who?

That question and its various unsatisfactory answers chase each other around in Daylen's head whenever he's not actively engaged in something else, and sometimes even when he is. The only time it disappears completely is when they're ambushed on their way back from yet another meeting with yet another noble. The opportunity to do something besides talk would even be welcome, if it weren't for Taliesen.

Daylen's instant dislike of him has more to do with the way Zevran's face closes off than with the arrows pointed in their direction. A lot of people have tried to kill him over the last year, including Zevran himself, but Zevran has only looked so carved from stone once before. Daylen wasn't terribly fond of the Guardian, either.

But for all he's the supposed reason both Taliesen and Zevran are in Ferelden, it's blindingly clear this has very little to do with him, so he tries to stay quiet. That doesn't stop dislike from turning to outright hate at the pain and grief on Zevran's face, so stark Daylen wants to look away. Zevran is looking at him, though, and the least Daylen can do is meet his eyes as he waits to see what Zevran will do. It seems impossible that Zevran would turn on him, but it's equally impossible to imagine him turning on someone he so clearly loves.

Zevran's gaze moves from Daylen to Leliana, who says nothing aloud even as her eyes plead and her hand grips her bow hard enough to shake.

Without looking away from her, Zevran says quietly to Taliesen, "You should have stayed in Antiva."

There's no time to think about the emotions in his voice before he turns and drives his knife into the throat of the closest mercenary.

It's not until later, after the fight is over and they've made it safely back to Eamon's estate, that Daylen learns Zevran's grief wasn't only for Taliesen. They're in Zevran's room, Zevran standing at the window with his arms folded over his chest and an abstracted expression on his face as he tells Daylen about Rinna. Leliana, who's clearly heard this story before, sits cross-legged on Zevran's bed and watches him, worried but silent.

For his part, Daylen tries to look attentive without gaping. It's one thing to understand that the process of turning a child into an assassin is brutally cruel. It's another for Daylen to learn he was Zevran's chosen method for committing suicide, and to listen to the story that led to that point.

What hits Daylen hardest is the realization that Zevran broke. The Crows broke him. Daylen's image of him as unbroken--unbreakable--is itself broken, shattered further by every word Zevran says. The Zevran that Daylen had sketched in his head, the person who survived all the abuses the Crows could inflict to come out the other side whole and laughing, never existed.

And yet, he seems like a whole person now. Grieving, yes, but not buried under the weight of it, not trying to drown it out with drink or burn it out with rage. When he does finally look away from the window, he smiles like it doesn't hurt at all.

 _"How?"_ Daylen wants to ask. _"How do you come back from that?"_ If the templars had won, Daylen knows he wouldn't have had the strength to climb out of that pit, and he can't help but be in awe that Zevran could.

Daylen excuses himself only a little while later, too confused to make intelligent conversation. As he closes the door behind himself, he catches a last glimpse of the room. Zevran is standing by the bed now, one hand threaded through Leliana's hair, smiling down at her as she smiles up at him. There's a warmth to those smiles that makes them intimate in a way Daylen has rarely seen and only felt once.

He looks away, but the image stays with him for days, along with the question he didn't dare ask. They intrude at odd moments, brief flashes when he's trying to decide which noble to approach next or reading scouts' reports of how many villages the darkspawn burned last week. He sees them so often when he's trying to sleep that it becomes part of his routine: he knows he won't be allowed to sleep until he's remembered Zevran's smile, or his fingers in Leliana's hair, or the way she smiled back and leaned into his touch.

Not that he does much sleeping. There are too many things that need to be done, and though he can't visit nobles in the middle of the night, he can argue tactics with Eamon or stare at the map like his connection with the darkspawn might let him predict their route. He doesn't need to predict their destination: anyone can look at the map to see where they're heading and know they'll be here within two weeks of the Landsmeet.

Two weeks. Two weeks to undo the damage Loghain has done and prepare to face an army and an archdemon. Anything Daylen can do before the Landsmeet is one less thing he has to do after, but he never seems to find the end of the list. The days aren't long enough to do it all, so he replaces sleep with magic, and magic with lyrium.

When Erlina arrives with the news that Rendon Howe has Anora prisoner, all Daylen can think is, _Of course he does._ This wasn't hard enough, so the Maker decided to add yet another knife to the ones Daylen is already trying to juggle.

"My queen suspects she cannot trust her father," Erlina tells them.

 _"It took her this long to realize that?"_ Daylen doesn't say, at least partly because an idea is beginning to form. Looked at from one angle, Anora's imprisonment is yet another problem. Looked at from another, Anora's rescue could be the perfect solution to a different one.

He leaves Alistair, Oghren, and Wynne behind, as the ones least capable of sneaking. By rights he should leave himself behind as well--Alistair in full armor is only slightly louder than Daylen--but he needs to meet Anora face to face before she's freed. He won't trust anyone else to decide whether she needs to meet with a tragic accident during her escape. Zevran would do it without a qualm, except Daylen isn't prepared to trust the fate of the Fereldan throne to an Antivan Crow. Zevran's personal loyalty is unquestionable, especially after the confrontation with Taliesen, but his idea of what makes for a suitable ruler doesn't necessarily align with Daylen's, and Daylen is the one who has to tell the Landsmeet how they should vote.

Very little about the rescue goes as expected, and when he turns the corner to find Ser Cauthrien waiting for them, he can't even be surprised. He backs himself and his companions up one turn of the hallway, but it doesn't buy them much time.

"Get her out," he says to Morrigan, jerking his head at Anora.

Morrigan opens her mouth to protest, but Daylen cuts her off. "We'll give you a head start and then follow." If they can. "Take her through the basement, out a window, I don't care, just get her to Eamon."

Ser Cauthrien shouts an order to her soldiers, and Daylen knows he's out of time. "Go!" he snaps at Morrigan. "Andraste's fucking ashes, _go_!"

With a growl of anger, Morrigan grabs Anora's wrist and pulls her away. Daylen hesitates, then he looks at Barkspawn and says, "Go with them. Keep them safe." There will be other soldiers unless Ser Cauthrien is a complete fool, and while Morrigan is a brilliant mage, she's only one person.

Barkspawn tears off after Morrigan and Anora, and Daylen turns his full attention on the soldiers bearing down on them. Sten has his sword ready, and Zevran is hefting one of his grenades of Antivan fire. Beside Daylen, Leliana nocks an arrow and gives him a small smile. He returns the smile with a tight one of his own and plants his staff, reaching for the Fade just as the soldiers turn the last corner and charge them.

The fight is brutal and desperate, the corridor full of smoke and screaming and the smell of burnt flesh as Zevran's grenades and Daylen's magic do their work. There are too many soldiers, and he prays to the Maker that this is most of them, that Morrigan and Barkspawn between them will be enough to get Anora to safety through whatever perimeter guards Ser Cauthrien set. While he's at it, he prays that Eamon will have the sense to accept Anora in Alistair's place, because it's looking less and less likely that Daylen will be there to make her case for her.

 _Please, Maker,_ he prays as a soldier knocks him off his feet. He hits the ground hard, and the vial of lyrium he'd been about to drink flies out of his hand. _Fuck you, **please**!_

It's not a prayer the Chantry would approve of, but he'd rather die angry than afraid.

###

The first thing he feels when he swims up to an aching consciousness is confusion. He didn't expect to survive, but he must have. Somehow, he doesn't think the Maker's paradise would involve so many bruises, not to mention choking nausea and a headache so intense he doesn't want to move for fear the pain might send him spiraling back into unconsciousness. He can't think about anything else, or even remember where he is. Something about Anora? And Howe, but the pain won't allow anything more. He can't even care that his wrists are bound behind his back, manacled the same as his ankles, and that he's completely cut off from the Fade.

Just about the time that real, coherent thought begins to creep out of hiding, someone hauls him into a seated position, and Daylen nearly blacks out as pain stabs through his head. By the time he can think again, strong hands are stripping off his robes, and his heart lurches into a gallop, the pain in his head throbbing with each beat. It doesn't matter that those hands are efficiently professional, the soldiers more concerned with whether he has any hidden weapons than with whatever pleasure they can get from touching someone helpless. Their intent doesn't matter. What matters is that he _is_ helpless, and his helplessness is on display for everyone here. They don't have to make a point of it for Daylen to feel the burn of anger and humiliation.

Combined with the spots that dance across his vision whenever he moves his head too quickly, he's too distracted and disoriented to make out much of his surroundings. All he can do is catch a few glimpses around the soldiers, enough to recognize the hallway where they fought but not to identify any of the bodies around him.

He loses even that much once the soldiers have stripped him to the skin and searched him: they bundle him into a blanket, covering him from head to toe with his arms still manacled behind his back. It's a weird kind of relief--at least now he doesn't have to feel all those eyes on him--but his pulse doesn't have time to slow before he's lifted up by feet and shoulders to swing in gentle, nauseating arcs between whoever's holding him.

There are voices talking nearby, and he strains to hear through the blanket and his own heartbeat.

"...need to give him this every two hours," someone says in the brisk tones of a veteran commander. Ser Cauthrien. "And make sure you tell them that whatever an angry mage does to them if they forget, it won't be half as bad as what I do."

Daylen's thoughts are still muddy, and it takes him a while to puzzle out that whatever she's talking about, it must be the reason he can't reach the Fade. Zevran has a particular poison he uses against mages, and Daylen very much regrets not asking more questions about it before.

He doesn't let himself think about whether he'll ever have another chance.

That gets easier as the soldiers carrying him start walking. Swinging between them does nothing good for the nausea, and it's all Daylen can do not to vomit. The bouncing, clattering cart they load him into is worse, making his head pound as well as his stomach roll. The blanket is damp from his breath, a smothering weight against his face, and his shoulders ache from having his hands bound behind his back. It's a relief when the cart stops at last, the same kind of relief as when they wrapped the blanket around him. One misery ended, but not in a way that helps him escape.

The soldiers haul him out of the cart the way they've handled him all along, unconcerned over minor pains but careful not to do him any real damage. Daylen isn't especially comforted by their consideration.

He tries to gather whatever useful information he can by listening, but the only thing he learns is that they've brought him to Fort Drakon. His sense of direction isn't even good enough to follow the path they take; the best he can do is keep track of how many flights of stairs they descend. The number is depressingly high by the time the soldiers swing him up onto a table with a bump that knocks the breath from his lungs. His imagination makes that breathlessness worse by presenting him with too many reasons they might have set him down on a table instead of on the ground inside a cell.

Someone pulls the blanket away from his head, and Daylen jerks back at the sudden glare of lantern light. His eyes are still watering when a firm hand grips his chin and turns his face to one side so he's staring at a person-shaped blur of grey and brown. A soldier presumably, and Daylen waits, jaw clenched, for whatever is about to happen.

Nothing, at first. The soldier doesn't release him, but while the hand on his chin is firm, it's not rough. It isn't until Daylen has blinked everything into focus that the soldier says, "All right, mage."

Fear tries to rise to the surface, but Daylen ignores it and glares in silence.

"You're going to take this," the soldier says. That he's holding a small vial rather than his hard cock does nothing for the chill that runs down Daylen's spine. "And since you're awake, I'll give you the choice: drink it on your own, or have me pour it down your throat."

Off to one side, out of Daylen's line of sight, someone gives an ugly laugh and makes a comment about what else will be going down Daylen's throat. The soldier in front of Daylen turns a look of such withering contempt in the speaker's direction that Daylen almost likes him.

"I'll be back for them in a couple days," the soldier says coldly. "If they're not in the same condition as I leave them, you'll answer to Ser Cauthrien." His grin is sudden and savage. "After you answer to me."

Whoever spoke before makes a sullen, mumbled apology that Daylen doesn't hear. _Them._ The soldier said _them_. Which means at least one other person survived the fight and is here with Daylen, able to help him fight his way out.

Always assuming he can escape chains, guards, and a potion that steals his magic. Right now, he's not feeling especially optimistic.

"Well?" the soldier asks Daylen, shaking the vial a little. His expression is no warmer than it was before. "Time to decide."

Daylen bites back his initial, _"Fuck you,"_ and tries to think instead. He could fight and maybe spill the vial, but if the guards are supposed to dose him every two hours, then the soldier will have more. Daylen won't be able to spill all of them.

It's a struggle to unclench his jaw, and he only forces it open enough to grind out, "I'll drink it."

The soldier nods, and someone lifts Daylen's shoulders enough that he can drink without choking. On the potion, anyway. The rage and fear boiling in his chest are a different matter.

The soldiers don't cover his head again as they lift him off the table, but it's only a short distance to the cell where they dump him and he can't see much around the guards carrying him. He hits the ground as hard as he hit the table, and while he's gasping for breath, the door slams closed. The sound of the key turning in the lock is clear, followed by the more-muffled sound of retreating footsteps.

Daylen struggles upright, needing to know what he's dealing with more than he needs to breathe. The cell is roughly square, its sides barely longer than he is tall and the walls broken only by a heavy door on one side. A small barred window is set high in the door, just the right height for someone to check on the cell's occupant.

It's brightly lit, which says to Daylen that--at least for now--they want to imprison rather than torture him. Darkness would be a tool to break him, but it's far easier to monitor a prisoner if guards can see clearly without opening the door.

The cell is empty except for him, so whoever survived the fight with him, they're locked up elsewhere. Daylen tells himself they're probably nearby; even Fort Drakon can't have many cells like this, intended for prisoners who can't be held with the rest. All he has to do is wait for his chance to escape and then check the cells around him until he finds the right one.

He hopes.

Because what if they're not nearby? Daylen can't search all of Fort Drakon floor by floor and cell by cell, but he also can't leave a friend here. He has to find them, and if they're not on this hall, then he'll have to spend valuable time figuring out where they are. The longer he searches, the higher his chances of being recaptured.

All of which assumes he can escape in the first place. With a little effort, he could get free of the blanket, but then he'd still be chained up in a cell. He'd just be cold and naked on top of everything else. Zevran is flexible enough to work his hands around from behind his back to the front of his body, but Daylen isn't. And even if he could, it leaves him with the same question: then what? He's not Sten or Alistair or Oghren, able to beat someone senseless with his chained hands. Without his magic, he's helpless.

The fear he's been trying to ignore grabs him by the throat, the old fear from Kinloch Hold and those few times he ran out of anger, when there was nothing he could do except wait helplessly for whatever would happen. He used to cultivate anger against just such times, hoarding fuel to burn when he needed it, but he's spent the last year trying to let go of that anger. It's been a liability more times than an asset, interfering in a dozen large and small ways when he needed to be calm for someone else's sake, to persuade or to comfort or simply to understand. He might turn to that anger in a fight, but when his life and his friends' lives are in immediate danger, it isn't hard to be angry.

It's hard to be angry now: he's exhausted, hurting, and helpless, surrounded by enemies who want Maker knows what from him. That they didn't kill him isn't reassuring. If Loghain wants him alive, chances are good it isn't so he and Daylen can negotiate. Daylen's overactive imagination can provide a number of possible fates that might be in store for him, but they all come down to one thing: making him an example of what happens to people who cross Loghain.

He curls in tighter on himself, battered by too many memories, fear building toward panic, his lungs squeezed too tight for him to breathe. The specifics might be different, but in all the ways that matter, this is no different than being back at Kinloch Hold, and the resemblance only feeds the terror.

 _You really thought you'd left it behind?_ the nasty voice in the back of his head asks. _You really thought you'd won? You really think you can ever win?_

Then a different voice, and a different memory: _"Pain wasn't a reason to stop fighting."_

What was it he said to Alistair at Haven, with Andraste's ashes in a pouch at his belt and the body of a dragon only a few feet away? _"I'm not going to let them win by giving up."_

He won't give them the satisfaction.

Anger sparks in his chest. Fuck all of them if they think Daylen will go quietly. He survived the templars, and he'll survive this. He has armies to face the Blight, even if Ferelden's arls are blind to the danger, and now an experienced Warden to deal with the archdemon, someone who knows what he's doing and won't just keep running forward in hopes of stumbling into the right answer before it's too late. Facing the archdemon no longer seems like an especially elaborate form of suicide.

All Daylen has to do is escape, and he's done more impossible things than that.

His lungs unlock enough for him to pull in one breath, and then another, and another, and as he breathes, he feeds everything to that small flame of anger. He gives it every pain clamoring for his attention, and every fear trying to crush him, and when the inside of his head is quiet and empty, he banks the coals of that rage for later. The guards or the soldiers will make mistakes, and eventually, they'll make one he can use.

He waits in an almost meditative state, not so much calm as poised. At measured intervals, he tests the wall blocking him from the Fade, marking how strong it is now and how strong it is relative to the last time he tested it. As it weakens, he pushes harder, applying force judiciously rather than beating himself frantically against it. This part, at least, is very like the struggle to reclaim his magic after a smite, and Maker knows he's had plenty of practice at that.

Whoever decided that he needed to be dosed every two hours underestimated him, though not by much. The Fade is almost in reach, his magic close enough to touch but not close enough to grab, when the cell door opens and three guards come in. Past them, in the hallway, Daylen sees at least two more before the door swings shut, locking the three guards in with him. Smart, assuming the guards in the hallway will hold their position even if their fellows in the cell start screaming. Pointless if they don't and will open the door to help.

Not that it matters. Instigating a direct confrontation before he has his magic back is tantamount to suicide, and he's not ready to go down that path. Instead, he stays quiet and drinks the potion when they hold a vial to his lips, watching the guards as covertly as he can. If his first plan proves unworkable, then he needs another to fall back on, and as unpleasant as the obvious choice is, it's better than staying a prisoner or forcing them to kill him.

The guard whose joke earned the soldier's ire is easy to pick out: even if Daylen didn't recognize his voice, his wandering hands would give him away. As the guard "helps" hold him upright for the potion, one of those hands finds a gap in the blanket, and his fingers leave a vicious bruise high on the outside of Daylen's thigh. The blanket and the manacles block access to anything more delicate, but Daylen knows exactly how much either of those will protect him if the guard chooses to return later, alone.

It's unlikely to be tonight, though, not with the other guards still on edge from the soldier's threat. If Daylen's first plan doesn't work, he'll still have time to brace himself for the unpleasant alternative.

Part of him tries to rebel at the thought, but Daylen suppresses it ruthlessly. It doesn't matter what the guard wants from him; it's unlikely to be the most painful or the most humiliating thing Daylen has ever done. And at least this time he might be able to buy his freedom, rather than just another day of survival.

Once the guards are gone, Daylen spits out what little of the potion he could avoid swallowing, then closes his eyes and concentrates. The wall blocking him from the Fade was breaking apart, leaving gaps he could--barely--reach through, but it's already rebuilding itself. All he can gather are a few wisps of magic, not enough to melt a lock or heal himself of the poison already working its way into his blood. That only leaves him one option.

Without giving himself time to consider what he's about to do, Daylen turns to the side and uses those scraps of magic in a kind of inverted healing, warping a spell meant to soothe into the opposite. He's never seen such a spell, but his usual brute force approach to healing is actually helpful here. Besides, after the blow to the head, the nauseating journey here, and the wild swings between fear and rage, his stomach doesn't need much encouragement.

When he's thrown up for what feels like days, he wipes his mouth on his shoulder, scrubbing longer than necessary in a vain attempt to get rid of the tingling numbness in his lips and tongue. A side effect of the potion, he decides eventually, and abandons that effort in favor of twisting and thrashing himself free of the blanket. He has qualms about being naked if the guards return before he can escape, but he's not going to escape if he stays wrapped up. And at least he can shove the blanket over the mess in the corner to lessen the smell somewhat.

Now he just has to wait out the last of the poison. Once he can reach the Fade, he can deal with the manacles, then the door, then anyone who tries to get between him and the way out. He'll have to remember not to set them _all_ on fire, though: he can't walk naked through Denerim, which means he needs to steal someone's clothes.

There's no warning tramp of boots in the hallway, so when the cell door opens a crack, Daylen goes rigid with a combination of hope and fear. He can think of two reasons someone would want to approach without attracting attention, and one of those reasons means nothing good for him.

The door opens wider, just wide enough to let someone slip into the cell. At the sight of familiar blond hair, recognizable despite being tangled and bloody and half free of its usual braids, Daylen breathes out a grateful, "Maker."

"Not quite," Zevran says. His eyes are bright, and he gives Daylen the same grin he sometimes wears in a hard fight they're nonetheless winning. "Though you are, of course, free to think of me as such."

Daylen returns the grin with one of his own, though his is sharper. "Speaking of being free to do things," he says, leaning forward and twisting one shoulder to turn the manacles in Zevran's direction. He'd intended to say more, but the numbness in his lips makes it hard to speak clearly.

"As you command, my dear Warden," Zevran says as he pulls the door shut behind him. He's wearing an over-large tunic and trousers, the legs of the trousers cut off at mid-shin, presumably so they can't trip him at an inopportune moment. Under one arm, he has a bundle of what might be more clothes, and if Daylen could stand, he would snatch them away without caring how rude it might be. Now that Zevran is here to deal with the manacles, being able to put on clothes moves up on the list of things Daylen wants.

There's only one thing higher.

"The others," Daylen says, twisting awkwardly to look at Zevran as he kneels to examine the manacles. "What happened?"

 _"Who died?"_ he does not ask.

"I wish I could say." Zevran isn't smiling anymore. "Morrigan and Anora are safe, I believe, and Barkspawn was with them. Leliana and Sten..." He shrugs as if the question is inconsequential, but his mouth is tight. "I found no sign of them here."

That's either very good or very bad, and everything Daylen has seen in life has taught him which of those to expect. Fuck.

The silence gets too heavy fast. Rather than think about who he might be burying tomorrow, Daylen asks, "How'd you keep your lock picks?"

"Now, now, that would be telling," Zevran says, head bent over Daylen's wrists as he works. "And I never kiss and tell."

Daylen snorts and falls silent to let him concentrate.

The first lock opens with a click, Zevran now working quickly rather than quietly, and he has the others open while Daylen is still shaking out the first hand.

"Here," Zevran says as the last lock opens. When he started on the manacles, the bundle he was carrying ended up shoved against the door, but he drags it over beside Daylen now. "I thought you might want these."

It's an understatement so vast it spans to the horizon. "Thank you," Daylen says, trying to sound sincere without revealing exactly how relieved he is.

He needs Zevran's help to get dressed, his body stiff and his grip weak after so long with his hands manacled behind his back, but he would put up with far greater indignities for this. It's so much easier to feel in control when he's dressed, even if these aren't his clothes and he'll still have to go barefoot.

As soon as that's done, Daylen returns to chafing his hands and arms, trying to get feeling back into them while Zevran does the same for his ankles and lower legs. Something that would take no time at all with magic, if only that was an option.

"I want my fucking magic back," Daylen mutters, not caring if he sounds sulky.

"They gave you magebane?"

"Is that what it's called?" Daylen asks with a grimace. His lips still feel strange, but he ignores the sensation and forces his mouth to form the words properly, mostly to be contrary. He's not giving anyone the satisfaction of beating him, not even a potion. "I've been calling it 'that fucking Maker-damned disgusting shit,' but I guess magebane is easier to say."

"Your description is ever so much more evocative, though." Zevran gives Daylen's calves another squeeze, painful but necessary. "Have you any idea how much they gave you?"

Daylen shakes his head. "Some while I was still out after the fight, some once we got here, and some just a little while ago. Whatever of it didn't end up over there." He jerks his chin toward the corner where his blanket is doing a poor job of covering the smell.

"Hm."

It's the kind of hum Daylen has heard from healers trying to decide whether to tell a patient exactly how painful a spell will be. He fixes the top of Zevran's bowed head with a narrow-eyed look. "What?"

Zevran hesitates. "Magebane is...hm. Usually a poison for the heat of battle, let's say. It takes hold quickly and wears off quickly. I know a few ways to extend its effects, but not to this degree, and not safely." He gives Daylen a reassuring smile that does not reassure him in the slightest. "Presumably if they intended to poison you, they would have done so already, and with far less fuss."

"So I only have to worry about unintentional poisoning." Daylen rubs harder at his hands and arms, then stops with a wince. The manacles have left raw bands of red around both of his wrists, the skin bleeding sluggishly in a few places. He adds sarcastically, "Praise Andraste."

"When your magic returns, can you heal yourself of any poison that remains?"

"I think so." Daylen wishes he was more confident. "Probably."

By the look on Zevran's face, he wishes Daylen was more confident, too. "Well, we must make the best of it. How long until then, do you think?"

Daylen tests the wall in his head. It's starting to crumble, but it's not ready to come down, not yet.

"Soon," he says to Zevran. "Sooner if I had my staff."

Zevran's mouth compresses briefly. "That may be difficult. Too many places it could be stored, always assuming they brought it with us in the first place."

"Lyrium, then?"

"Possibly," Zevran says. "Or at least, more possible." He rises to his feet easily, though he has to be as tired and sore as Daylen, and offers a hand. "Come. We should be gone from here before they realize they've misplaced me. I did my best to hide our benefactors," he gestures at his and Daylen's clothes, "but no telling how long before they're discovered."

Daylen stands with significantly less grace and his first few steps are stumbling, but by the time they make it to the end of the first hallway, he's barely limping. When he looks up to pay attention to more of their surroundings than the stones under his feet, the first thing he sees is the knife at the small of Zevran's back, tucked into his belt and angled so he can draw it quickly. Daylen hopes they won't need it, but he's glad to know it's there.

If he weren't already lost, the path Zevran takes through the fort would do it. They go down stairs as often as up them, along a corridor only to double back on the next floor, around turn after turn until Daylen is sure they'll end up where they started. They don't, though, and on the rare occasion they cross paths with a guard, Zevran always has a place for them to hide before they're spotted. Daylen quickly gives up trying to map their route and concentrates on not tripping over his feet, which have started to tingle the same as his mouth.

Two floors up from the cells, Daylen feels a touch of magic, something on this side of the Veil and not blocked by the magebane. He hesitates, and when Zevran looks back to check on him, he whispers, "I think my staff is that way." It could be anyone's staff, but he likes to think he recognizes the feel of this one.

Zevran looks where Daylen is pointing--a blank wall, unfortunately--and does some kind of calculation in his head. His mental map of the place is better than Daylen's, so maybe he knows what's on the other side.

They reverse course and head back down the hallway, Zevran turning into a cross corridor before they reach the stairs. Their progress is slower now, and Daylen can see the tension in Zevran's shoulders, but it's only one more turn before they're standing outside a closed door. Voices and the occasional laugh drift under the door, too muffled for Daylen to make out anything useful.

Head cocked, Zevran listens for long enough that Daylen becomes the tense one, but at last Zevran nods. Without speaking, he moves Daylen to stand flat against the wall on the hinge side of the door, stations himself on the other side, then pushes the door open.

He does not, however, step into the room. Puzzled though he is, Daylen waits silently, aware this is Zevran's area of expertise and not his own. The voices from inside the room are clearer now, the bored conversation of guards in the middle of a quiet watch, until one of them says in exasperation, "Ah, the fucking door."

Booted footsteps approach. Zevran catches Daylen's eye and gestures for him to stay put, his face full of warning, and Daylen nods to reassure him. Without either magic or staff, he's worse than useless in a fight. With an answering nod, Zevran reaches smoothly for the door handle, the timing as perfect as a carefully choreographed dance.

Zevran slams the door open and--by the thump--straight into one of the guards. Before anyone has a chance to do more than begin to curse, Zevran darts into the room, shutting the door behind himself and leaving Daylen alone in the corridor. The closed door is unexpected, but Daylen understands it now it's happened, so he waits, fists clenched, as the sounds of a fight rise. One shout is loud enough to make him flinch and look hastily left and right, but the sound cuts off almost as soon as it started.

The door opens again, slower this time, and Zevran bows him into the room with a disgusted look on his face. "Careless," he mutters, barely audible over the sound of the door shutting.

"The best kind of enemy," Daylen says absently, making straight for the sword rack on the far side of the room. His staff is propped against it, and his hands itch to hold it.

Or maybe that's the magebane. Either way, he wants his staff.

"Not them," Zevran says. " _I_ was careless."

Hand inches from his staff, Daylen pauses to look around the room at the three bodies on the floor and then at Zevran. Who's unarmored, and armed with a stolen belt knife that had probably never been used for anything more violent than cutting meat at table until now. The guards, on the other hand, are wearing decent chainmail and carried swords with easily three times the reach of Zevran's knife. It doesn't escape Daylen's notice that all three of those swords are still sheathed.

"I can't decide if I really want to see work you consider careful," Daylen says, "or if I really don't."

"They should never have had time to shout," Zevran explains. He still looks disgusted.

"More practice, then," Daylen says. "But later."

Zevran sighs dramatically, but he does it while crossing to the chest against one wall. While he picks its lock, Daylen takes his staff and grips it tightly in both hands, sinking his fingers into the magic woven through it. The Fade is so close he can feel it straining toward him, the wall crumbling fast. Daylen gives it a considering look, puts mental hands against the thinnest part he can find, and instead of pushing, this time he _pulls_.

Magic punches through the wall and into him, hard enough to make his physical body jerk. Daylen doesn't care that it leaves him breathless, doesn't care that it hurts after how much magic he channeled at Howe's mansion, doesn't care about anything except that he can touch the Fade again. The more magic he pulls, the more the wall breaks apart, until he's shattered it completely.

"There," he says with deep satisfaction.

"A gift for you, my dear Warden," Zevran says from behind him.

When Daylen turns, a grinning Zevran holds out a small glass vial. The glass is cool against Daylen's fingertips, and the lyrium inside it sings.

"You're gifting me one of my own potions?" Daylen is grinning himself, his heart beating faster, but now it's in anticipation of the fight, not fear that he'll be helpless when Zevran needs him.

Zevran clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Such ingratitude."

With the vial already at his lips, Daylen isn't in a position to answer, and once the burning cold of the lyrium hits his tongue, he forgets everything else.

If the magebane was a wall, then the lyrium is a bridge straight into the heart of the Fade. There's no more reaching for it; all Daylen has to do is direct the flood of power pouring into him. It runs down channels in his mind that are already raw from earlier tonight, and he'll pay the price later, but for now, pain is drowned out by the euphoria lyrium always brings, a euphoria pushed higher by relief.

He comes most of the way back down when he realizes that the tingling in his mouth and feet hasn't disappeared. If anything, it seems to be spreading up his legs, and the tips of his fingers have started to itch. Whether it's the magebane or some more subtle effect of being chained up, he can't tell: all his attempts to track down the problem turn up exactly nothing, but he's a barely adequate healer at the best of times.

In as casual a tone as he can manage, he asks Zevran, "Any dangerous signs I should watch for with the magebane?"

"Why do you ask?"

Daylen looks up to see a deeply suspicious frown aimed his way. "Nothing bad," he says hastily. "My feet feel weird, that's all. My hands, too."

"Brasca." Zevran rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers. "Can you walk?"

"It doesn't hurt. Really!" he adds at Zevran's look. "I just thought you should know." No matter how much he hates to show weakness, he isn't stupid enough to let Zevran be caught by surprise if Daylen collapses or begins to convulse or whatever other horrible thing might happen.

"Well enough," Zevran says. "If you feel as though you might fall or faint, tell me. There are a few places we can hide for a short while, if we need to."

"I will." Not wanting to dwell on all the new ways he's discovered for things to go wrong, Daylen waves at the now-unlocked chest. "Is it all there?"

To his surprise, most of it is, aside from the robes Loghain's soldiers cut off when they searched him. His belt pouch is also missing, along with the money that was in it, but he never carried much with him, and he's long past the point where a few sovereigns mean the difference between sleeping indoors and sleeping in the rain. A few other things are missing as well, but nothing valuable, and Daylen wonders if the soldier who put the fear of the Maker into his guards did the same to whoever was responsible for securing their belongings.

Daylen gives that unnamed soldier an ironic mental salute and follows Zevran back out into the hallway to resume their interrupted escape.

It involves more stairs, more corridors, and increasingly frequent patrols, but they evade most of the guards and the rest are easy to take care of. Daylen barely has to use his magic, preferring to hoard it against worse threats than the occasional pair of unsuspecting guards.

"Almost there," Zevran says as they begin to climb yet another flight of stairs. "The ground floor is just above us."

Thank the Maker. Daylen's legs are screaming from exhaustion, though he would have said he was more fit than most. Not fit enough to run up and down stairs all night, it would seem, but at least this is the last of them. He puts his head down, ignores the tingling and numbness that now reach halfway up his thighs, and begins to climb.

They're nearly to the top when the sounds of a fight reach them, and Daylen forgets to worry about anything. He exchanges a look with Zevran and can see his own thoughts reflected back at him. It can't be coincidence that someone decided to attack Fort Drakon now.

They start to run, bare feet slapping as they take the last of the stairs two at a time and tear down the hallway. Zevran is nominally in the lead since he knows the fort's layout, but Daylen is hard on his heels, and as soon as he catches a glimpse of the fight, he takes advantage of his longer legs to sprint past. In the distance, he hears a familiar bark, and he pushes himself harder, letting magic course through his legs and chest so he can keep running.

He has just enough control not to run straight into the middle of the fight but to pause and assess the situation. A line of guards stands shield to shield, their backs to him as they brace against the four people advancing on them. There's smoke drifting through the air, obscuring details, but Daylen can see that one of the people striding toward him is a dwarf, and one of the others stands head and shoulders taller than anyone else. A mabari jogs along between them, and someone carrying a sword and shield keeps pace on the right. Behind them, through the smoke, Daylen can just make out three shadows that might be people.

The smoke and the distance don't matter. Daylen knows who they are and what it means that they're all here. All of them, even those who were with him at Howe's mansion, and he should be relieved--overjoyed--but he's not. His head knows them, but the knot in his stomach stays wound tight, his gut refusing to believe. The question he's been trying not to ask since he woke up a prisoner still doesn't have an answer, and it won't until this fight is done. Then he can find out who died so he could spare Alistair from being king. There's still time for some guard to get in a lucky shot, after all.

One of the shadows at the back raises a bow, and an arrow takes a guard in the throat. As if that was a signal, the one with the shield charges the line of guards, hurling three off their feet with a deafening crack. The mabari is there in a moment, teeth snapping, and then the whole thing dissolves into controlled chaos.

Daylen tries to help where he can. He downs another vial of lyrium to keep himself going and ignores the tingling that's now working its way across his chest. It's similar to the prickling he normally feels in his hands and face during a fight, and the pounding of his heart drowns out everything else.

When it's over, he stands where he is, swaying on numb feet as exhaustion and reaction crash down on him. He can see the others through the smoke, but he can't think enough to move toward them. His mind is blank, every part of him either tingling and numb or burning in agony.

A shadow hurdles out of the murk straight toward him, stopping just short of bowling him over. From so close, even his fear can't deny that it's Barkspawn, alive and apparently whole and stepping on his feet as she dances in place.

Maybe she understands how exhausted he is, because she noses at his hand rather than jumping on him or pushing up against him. He doesn't dare bend down to pet her for fear of going face-first into the stone floor, but her ears are in reach, and he strokes one gently.

"Fool dog," he murmurs, and she whuffles happily at him.

When he looks up, Sten is there, as whole as Barkspawn and looking no more or less stoic than usual. Which means that of those who were with Daylen at Howe's mansion, there are only two he hasn't seen with his own eyes.

"Leliana?" Daylen croaks, fear and hope warring inside him. "Morrigan?"

Sten points wordlessly at the shadows at the far end of the entrance hall.

"How?" It's still not real, not possible, even though a wind too controlled to be natural is blowing away the smoke, and he can see red hair in the distance.

"I ordered a retreat when you fell," Sten says. His face is set, as if he expects Daylen to be angry at him for not fighting to the last. "Morrigan had her head start, and that was not a fight we could win."

"Thank the Maker." Daylen can't shake all of his disbelief, not yet, but a little light is beginning to shine through. Then he realizes what he said, and his lip curls for a moment. "No, fuck the Maker. Thank _you_."

Sten looks past him, eyes tracking movement Daylen can't be bothered to turn and see. "Zevran fell before we could escape. When I saw the soldiers carry two bodies away, I admit I held out little hope."

"But you came anyway." A thought occurs to him, and Daylen blames the magebane for how long it's taken him to think of it. "How did you know to come here?"

"I followed the cart," Sten says, as if it should be obvious. "When they brought you here, it seemed a promising sign that at least one of you lived."

Too overwhelmed to speak or even think, Daylen shuts his eyes, only for them to snap back open at the sound of someone in full armor approaching at a pace just short of a run. He turns, knowing who it is but needing to see him anyway.

Alistair's face is set in grim lines beneath his helmet. There's blood on his armor and on the sword he's only now sliding into its sheath, and one corner of his shield is splintered apart. A few feet away from Daylen, he jerks off his helmet, letting it fall with a clang as his shield hits the ground on his other side, and then all Daylen can see is grey steel and blond hair as Alistair wraps him in a fierce hug.

"Fuck," Alistair breathes. He presses his cheek hard against Daylen's, and Daylen can feel him shaking even through the armor. "Fucking Andraste."

Daylen still can't think, but he doesn't need to, not for this. He hugs Alistair back as tightly as he can through a full set of plate, ducking his face down into Alistair's neck despite the sweat and blood all over both of them. It might be the most physically uncomfortable hug of Daylen's life, with bits of Alistair's armor jabbing him in a number of unpleasant places, but he couldn't let go if the archdemon landed beside them. He's still angry at Alistair, still hurting from that afternoon on the dock, but right now, it's too distant and abstract when weighed against the fact that Alistair is here for him to be mad at.

"Fuck," Alistair whispers again, then laughs, a little hysterically. "I kept my end of the deal and didn't fall off any cliffs. What's your excuse?"

"Hey," Daylen protests, squeezing harder even though he thinks he might actually have cut himself on Alistair's armor. It's a shallow scratch, he can heal it later. "I didn't let anyone shoot me with any arrows, so I think I kept up my end just fine."

"The deal had nothing to do with arrows."

"No reckless magic, either," Daylen says, then amends that with a laugh almost as hysterical as Alistair's, "Or only when I had to, anyway."

Alistair holds him away to look him up and down, his eyes lingering on Daylen's feet. Or...no, not his feet, Daylen realizes. Alistair isn't looking at what is there; he's looking at what's not, which would be Daylen's boots. And when Alistair's gaze moves up his body, Daylen knows he's looking at the clothes that are most definitely someone else's.

His jaw is tight when he meets Daylen's eyes again, which makes it doubly surprising when he asks, "Do you want any company when you go off to kill whoever ruined your favorite robes?" The levity in his tone is strained, but he's trying. "I mean, I know you can do it by yourself, but I thought maybe I could knock a few of them down before you set them on fire."

It startles Daylen into a laugh despite the way the world has begun to sway gently around him. "I didn't know you felt so strongly about my robes."

"They were nice robes," Alistair says. "And besides, I like knocking people down for you."

"They get grumpy," Daylen says. "I remember."

There are three Alistairs in front of him now, merging and separating and merging again. Daylen is pretty sure the one on the left is the real Alistair, but he decides it doesn't matter as one or all of them pull him into another hug. It's no more comfortable than the last one, but Daylen is no more likely to complain about it, either. Besides, as numb as his skin has become, he can barely feel the metal where it's digging in.

"Does that mean I can come along and knock some people down for you?" Alistair asks. "Or did you want to do it by yourself?"

"What I want right now is sleep," Daylen mumbles, pressing his cheek to Alistair's. The world is swaying less gently now, and he needs every point of reference he can find in order to stay upright. "A lot of sleep."

Alistair's arms tighten, the fingertips of his gauntlets leaving bruises on Daylen's ribs, and he whispers, "Please tell me you're all right. I don't care about anything else, I just want to know you're all right."

"I'm all right," Daylen says. Or at least, he thinks that's what he says, just before the whole world is jerked sideways into darkness.


	16. Everyone Looks Back

Daylen's return to consciousness is more pleasant this time. He doesn't hurt, for one thing, and the Fade is a soothing whisper in the back of his head, well within his reach if he wants it. No manacles, no enemy soldiers, no cold stone under his face. He's less pleased to realize he's naked beneath the blankets, but there _are_ blankets, and a pillow, and a soft mattress cradling him.

He drifts a while, aware but not quite awake, in possession of just enough of his wits to realize how witless he is right now. Every thought has to be chased down and grappled into submission before he can start on the next, and while he could touch the Fade if he wanted, he's not sure he has the strength of will to do more than that. He's not sure he should be allowed to even try.

There's a soft sound from very close at hand. It's a sign of exactly how tired Daylen is that he doesn't start, and his heart barely stutters in alarm. Opening his eyes doesn't seem worth the effort, but he does it anyway.

He's glad he did. Alistair's face is right there, almost close enough to kiss, and even the memory of how badly that ended last time can't stop the warmth that spreads through Daylen at the sight of him. Alistair's eyes are closed, his face slack with sleep, which means Daylen can stare at him for as long as he wants. Why he's sitting on the floor, sleeping with his head on one folded arm rather than in the bed or the chair is a mystery Daylen doesn't bother trying to solve right now, too busy tracing every line of Alistair's face with his eyes.

 _You could have had this every morning,_ the snide voice in his head points out. _If you hadn't fucked it up._

Daylen ignores that, because maybe he didn't fuck it up beyond all hope. Alistair's presence here, asleep beside what's presumably Daylen's sick bed, says just as much as that rough, desperate embrace at Fort Drakon earlier. Or was that yesterday by now? The shutters on the windows are closed, the room lit only by the fire and a single candle. No matter how much Daylen squints and prods at his brain, he can't tell more than that; damn Eamon for building a manor with shutters that actually keep the outside out.

On the way back to Alistair's face, Daylen's gaze falls on a pile of something in the corner by the window. With a little more squinting, he can make out a pile of armor, but that makes no sense. He's in his own room, and he could barely lift all that metal, let alone wear it. Why would anyone leave him something like that?

The answer wanders up from the depths of his mind, taking a leisurely path to where Daylen can see it and an even slower one to where he can grasp it and its implications. He gets there eventually, though. No one was foolish enough to gift him a full set of plate, and there's only one reason Alistair's armor would be in his room.

This time when he looks at Alistair, he sees the signs he missed before in the pure joy at his presence. Alistair's face and hands are mostly clean, but there are smudges of dirt on his neck and the arm Daylen can see, and he hasn't removed the padded gambeson he wears beneath his armor. Though why he chose to sit on the floor is still a puzzle.

Another quick glance at the pile in the corner confirms Daylen's memory: it's stacked haphazardly, nothing like the orderly arrangement Alistair typically uses when he doesn't have an armor stand. There are dark streaks and spatters across nearly all the metal Daylen can see, and he suspects that if he were closer, or had better light, those streaks would be the dark red and brown of dried blood.

In the last year, Daylen has never once seen Alistair leave his armor in anything except pristine condition. He devotes a level of loving attention to it that borders on the obsessive, something Daylen has mostly refrained from teasing him about since he wants Alistair wearing armor that's in good repair. That this sometimes means Alistair polishes it while staggering from exhaustion is something Daylen has learned to accept. He's even helped with the simpler tasks on occasion, just so Alistair can sleep that much sooner.

Alistair makes a quiet sound deep in his throat, a groan that's cut off almost as soon as Daylen realizes where it's coming from. Alistair's face is tense now, lips compressed and eyes squeezed tightly shut, and it isn't until he makes the sound again that Daylen realizes he's still asleep.

Asleep, and caught in a nightmare by the look of it.

There isn't a single muscle in Daylen's body that doesn't ache with exhaustion, but he works one arm out from beneath the blankets anyway. He even manages to hold it steady enough that he lays his hand gently on Alistair's head rather than dropping it and scaring ten years off his life. A Warden's life is short enough already.

Alistair's hair is stiff with dried sweat when Daylen touches it, half of it flattened to his head and the other half sticking out in spikes. The absurdity would make Daylen smile in other circumstances, but he doesn't feel like smiling when Alistair is whimpering in pain.

"Shhh," Daylen whispers. He strokes Alistair's hair, ignoring the traces of salt it leaves on his palm. "Shhh, it's all right." And then, on something halfway between a whim and wishful thinking, he adds, "I'm all right."

Whether it's the words, the touch, or simply the changeable nature of dreams, Alistair quiets. The tension in his shoulders begins to ease, and the lines around his eyes and mouth smooth out.

"Mm?" The sound is almost as quiet as the whimpering, but this time it's inquisitive rather than pained.

He's not actually awake, so Daylen strokes his hair again and whispers, "Shhh. Go back to sleep."

"Mm-hm."

As Alistair's breathing returns to normal, a familiar pair of furry ears peek over the edge of the bed, followed by a nose that seems to pull the rest of the muzzle slowly up behind it, until Barkspawn has her chin on the bed beside Alistair's head. She gives Daylen a piteous look, her dark brows drawn together in concern, but as soon as he scratches her between the ears, she sighs in contentment and closes her eyes.

"Fool dog," he whispers. "Such a fool dog."

She licks his wrist, and he smiles as he imagines her saying, _"I love you, too."_

The thought pulls his gaze back to Alistair, who's slipped into more peaceful sleep. Easy to see now why he chose to sit on the floor; Barkspawn is probably lying across his legs like the lapdog she isn't. His legs will be numb by morning, if they aren't already.

Somehow, Daylen doesn't think Alistair will care.

Barkspawn whuffles at him when he stops scratching her ears but doesn't open her eyes or move away. Daylen threads his fingers through Alistair's hair and watches Barkspawn's ears twitch until sleep pulls him under once again.

###

The next time Daylen wakes, Alistair--and his armor--are gone.

They've been replaced with Zevran, and while Daylen is glad to see him looking whole and rested, he can't help but feel it's a step down.

Unlike Alistair, Zevran is slouched in one of the room's two chairs, with his feet propped on the bed. He has a book open in his lap, but he's looking at Daylen with a smile spreading over his face.

"Ah, the sleeper awakes," Zevran says.

That might be overstating things. Which Daylen then proves by forgetting what few manners he has and asking, "Where's Alistair?"

Zevran coughs into his fist, a not-terribly-convincing cover for a laugh he couldn't quite suppress. "Asleep in his own bed, if he has even the smallest drop of common sense. If not? Courting Wynne's wrath."

Daylen frowns. It absolutely is not petulant. "Did Wynne throw him out?"

"She did." Zevran coughs again at whatever he sees on Daylen's face, no more convincing than last time. "I recommend against attempting to chastise her for it. She allowed him to stay until we were sure you would recover, and he could hardly sleep on your floor another night."

There are a number of things in that statement that give Daylen pause. He starts with what seems the easiest. "What do you mean, until you were sure I'd recover?"

"Precisely that." A shadow passes over Zevran's face, and that more than anything tells Daylen exactly how bad it was.

"What happened?" He walked almost all the way out of the fort. What could have happened in the time it took to return to Eamon's?

"A longer story than it might otherwise be." Zevran closes his book and drops his feet to the floor. "Before we begin, you should drink something. Alistair may court Wynne's wrath if he chooses, but I have no desire to do the same, and she left me quite specific instructions as to what I should do when you woke."

Without waiting for Daylen's answer, Zevran climbs to his feet with an ease that says plainly he's recovered from their time at Fort Drakon. He lifts, props, and waters Daylen according to whatever instructions Wynne gave him, and Daylen has to admit he feels less like an invalid afterward. Propped against the headboard, with a mug of water cradled in his hands, he can almost pretend everything is normal. If he normally had conversations with anyone while lying in bed.

As Daylen sips from his mug, Zevran busies himself with adding more water and a packet of herbs to a kettle, positioning it over the fire with such care that Daylen knows he's stalling.

"Zevran," he says, when Zevran has moved the kettle between the same two spots at least three times. "What happened?"

"Your practices with Alistair," Zevran says, still fiddling with the kettle. "They required you to reach into the Fade when you might not otherwise have been able to?"

"That was part of it," Daylen says, puzzled by the non-sequitur. "A big part of it until we figured out what we were supposed to be doing instead."

Zevran nods and turns the kettle again.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Daylen asks, rather than climb out of bed and shake Zevran. Then a terrifying thought hits him, and he grips his mug tighter. "Were we attacked by templars?"

"No no no," Zevran says hastily. He finally leaves off fidgeting with the kettle and returns to his chair, dragging it closer to the head of the bed as he sits. "Truth be told, we saw hardly anyone, let alone templars."

"Then why do you ask?"

"Wynne and I were both curious about what was involved in practicing to withstand a smite, and there was no one to ask until you woke." Zevran's casual shrug is unconvincing. "Alistair saw it from the outside, without a mage's talent, and Morrigan only joined you after Haven."

"But why does it matter?" he demands.

"The magebane was still in your blood, when Wynne tried to heal you," Zevran says. Daylen opens his mouth to ask about that word "tried," but he doesn't have a chance before Zevran continues. "She tells me there was so much, you should never have been able to touch the Fade."

Daylen's mind is clearer now, most of the sleep-fog burned away, and it isn't hard to put the pieces together. "It didn't feel like a smite," he says slowly, turning the idea over. "That's like trying to grab something just out of reach, and this was more like hitting my head on a wall."

"But similar enough, perhaps?"

"Looks like, yeah." Daylen shakes his head. "I remember I just kept pushing and pushing at it, trying to get to the Fade, and after a while, the wall got thin enough I could smash the rest. Having my staff helped. The lyrium, too."

"Ahhh, yes," Zevran says, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The lyrium."

"What about the lyrium?" Daylen asks, wary. "Did they poison it somehow?"

"No," Zevran says. He turns his book around and around in his hands, his eyes intent on Daylen's. "How much lyrium have you had in the last...oh, let us say, the last week."

"I don't know," Daylen says honestly. He tries to calculate it based on how long it's been since he was last allowed more than half a night's sleep and comes up with a number that can't be right. He tries again, this time based on how much money he's spent on ingredients, but it's been so long since money was a concern that he didn't keep close enough track, and the number he ends up with is even higher than the first.

"That much, then?" Zevran asks. There are times Daylen wishes he was less perceptive, and this is one.

"I didn't think so." He still doesn't think so, except that no matter how he calculates it, no matter the exact number, every answer comes down to the same thing: too much. "It didn't seem like it at the time."

"And what does it seem like now?"

"Like maybe I should have paid more attention," Daylen admits.

"I thought as much," Zevran says. "Wynne was doubtful, but she hardly knows you."

"She's known me for years." As an instructor, though, and not one he'd been especially close to. He adds defensively, "But I had to stay awake, and magic was the best way to do that. I couldn't risk falling asleep on Eamon's Maker-damned map."

"So rather than sleep, you let magic carry you through, and when your magic was no longer enough, you took lyrium to replace it."

"It's not like mages can get addicted to lyrium," Daylen says, dodging Zevran's question because they both know the answer. Zevran has seen him do it before, though never for more than a day or two at a time. "And I had to do something. I couldn't find enough hours in the day as it was."

"You could have asked for help," Zevran says, his tone so dry it sucks the moisture from the room. "And according to Wynne, while it happens rarely, mages can indeed become addicted to lyrium, the same as templars."

"So we do have something in common," Daylen says, trying to joke. "I think I'd rather pretend we don't."

Zevran ignores him. "I know very little of magic and Wynne knows very little of poisons, but between us we know quite a lot about both. In this particular case, we believe the magebane attempted to suppress the lyrium still in your body, the same as it would with your magic. When you were able to touch the Fade despite everything, the magebane reacted to that as well."

"But isn't that normal?" Daylen asks, confused. "That's what magebane does, right?"

"Eh." Zevran raises a hand to tilt it back and forth. "Not precisely. It should suppress whatever magic you already hold, but it also blocks your path to the Fade, and without the Fade, it has nothing else to suppress."

"Except I kept pulling more," Daylen says.

"Yes. The more you took in, the more there was for the magebane to fight." Zevran sighs. "Had it been the poison I use, it would have been over quickly, but this was created to hold your magic at bay for hours. Which it attempted to do, while you continued to draw on the Fade."

"Oh." Daylen can see the whole picture now, and he winces away from it. "That could have been bad."

Zevran's expression is eerily calm as he studies Daylen. "It was indeed 'bad,'" he says at last. "You stopped breathing twice between Fort Drakon and here."

Daylen sits bolt upright, water splashing everywhere as he stares at Zevran in shock. "I...what?"

"You stopped breathing," Zevran says evenly. "And because there was still so much magebane in your blood, Wynne had to work that much harder to heal you."

Fuck. "How much harder?"

"Much." Zevran's calm cracks, and for the first time since Daylen met him, he looks the way Daylen feels all the time: so overwhelmed by fear and anger that it chokes out anything else.

Zevran blinks and looks away, and Daylen leans slowly back against the headboard, staring at the mug in his hands to give Zevran what privacy he can.

"You may wish to rethink your position on the Maker's love," Zevran says. His voice is light again, without so much as a tremor, but all Daylen can see is his face in that moment when he lost control. "Your luck seems quite miraculous to me, so I can only conclude that He watches over you closely."

 _"The Maker can fuck Himself and His luck."_ It isn't difficult to hold the words back; Daylen doesn't want to say them, not right now. It feels too much like dismissing everything Zevran must have gone through in the last day. Everything all of them must have gone through.

Alistair's presence here, asleep on the floor without a thought for his armor, suddenly has new weight it didn't need.

"I'm sorry," Daylen offers in a whisper.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. I could wish you'd asked for help and not driven yourself into the ground, but this..." Zevran huffs a quick sigh. "This was hardly something anyone could have anticipated."

"If I'd known what would happen-" He cuts himself off, caught without an honest way to end that sentence. He would have what? Stayed locked in that cell, manacled and helpless, until someone came to get him, whether that was Zevran or Alistair or Loghain's soldiers? Let the others fight while he watched and did nothing? Curled up in a ball and prayed it would all go away?

"You would have done what you had to do," Zevran says. "The same as any of us. And no one begrudges you that."

Daylen acknowledges that with a nod and changes the subject slightly. "Everyone else is all right?"

"A few cuts and bruises, nothing more." Zevran gives him a sly smile. "Even you could have healed any of it."

"Fuck you," Daylen says, a brief smile tugging at his lips. It doesn't last, though, not when he's still shaken from everything Zevran has told him. Still afraid, and he can't find his usual anger to hide behind.

Eventually, he gives up and looks down at the blankets. Without meeting Zevran's eyes, he asks, "Alistair. He's really all right?"

"Yes." The gentleness of Zevran's tone makes Daylen flush, knowing how much he revealed with that question. "He may never forgive Wynne for chasing him away only a little while before you woke, but otherwise? A little sleep, a little food, the sight of your smiling face-" Daylen snorts his opinion of that. "-and he'll be himself again."

There's a rustle of cloth, and Daylen looks up to watch Zevran set his book on the floor. With his head still tilted down and his face hidden, Zevran says far too casually, "But while we find ourselves on the subject of Alistair, I admit that I had hoped to speak with you in private."

Now that he knows Alistair is all right, Daylen can't think of a single thing about Alistair that he wants to discuss with Zevran, and he's immediately wary. "Oh?"

Zevran's bland expression matches his casual tone as he straightens in his chair and meets Daylen's eyes. "You are aware that his feelings toward you are, shall we say, more than friendly?"

Daylen groans and slaps one hand over his eyes. "You want to talk about this _now_?" His hand is wet from the water he spilled earlier, and he wipes it over his cheeks and forehead, hoping to cool the heat in his face. "And how is it any of your business?"

"I never claimed that it was," Zevran says, "and in fact, I did what I could to limit my involvement."

"What do you call this, then?"

"The end of my patience," Zevran says, dryly amused. "And I note that you failed to answer my question. Are you aware he wants more than your friendship?"

"He slept on the floor by my bed for hours." His tone matches Zevran's for dryness. "Yes, I'm aware."

"A day and a half," Zevran corrects. "We left Fort Drakon yesterday morning."

Another shock Daylen didn't need, though at least he doesn't spill the water again. "Yesterday?"

"Yesterday." Zevran smiles and adds helpfully, "The others are likely at supper right now."

Daylen shakes himself free of his paralysis. "A day and a half, then. He slept by my bed for a day and a half. Yeah, I think I know how he feels about me. I also know it doesn't matter."

"Does it not?"

"It doesn't," Daylen snaps. The hurt and anger he's been carrying for weeks are coming back, and he really doesn't want them right now. "Maybe he...cares for me, but he also thinks I'm breakable." Broken.

Zevran makes an annoyed sound. "He followed you into the Deep Roads, into high mountains with no path to be found for days, and into a tower full of demons. Into a werewolves' den as well, or so Leliana tells me."

"To protect me," Daylen says, though he knows that's only half the truth. Maybe not even half. He closes his eyes to block out Zevran's face, but that leaves his mind free to present him with the memory of Alistair's expression that afternoon on the dock.

"Only to protect you?" Zevran's tone does everything except call him a liar outright.

"I saw his face," Daylen says, eyes still shut tight. "I didn't let the templars break me, and I'll go back down into the Deep Roads tomorrow, _alone_ , before I let anyone look at me like I broke." His heart is pounding heavily in his chest. "I fought too hard, sometimes I'm _still_ fucking fighting, and the last thing I need is someone treating me like I've already lost."

The mattress shifts as Zevran moves from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed, so it isn't a surprise when he lays a gentle hand on Daylen's shoulder. "No one believes anything of the kind. No one who knows you, and Alistair knows you better than most, yes?"

"Better than anyone." The words slip out despite him, but having said them, he might as well say the rest. "Which makes it worse, to have him look at me like that, because maybe that means I've been fooling myself all along."

"He was surprised," Zevran says mildly.

"Yes," Daylen snaps, "which means he didn't have time to hide what he thinks."

Zevran makes that annoyed sound again, harsher than before. "Why do people insist that surprise somehow gives better insight into anyone's thoughts?"

"Because it's true."

"No," Zevran says with patience that borders on patronizing. "Surprise reveals instinct, and habit. Those are not the same as truth, nor are they the whole of a person. They are mostly shallow truths, or sometimes the ugly side of deeper ones."

"That's not exactly helping," Daylen points out through gritted teeth. "So he's in the habit of thinking of me as broken? He's instinctively afraid to touch me? And don't tell me that was the first time he's thought like that, because I know he's been thinking about this for months. He's been afraid every time I got too close this whole time."

There's a pause, and in it, Daylen imagines that Zevran is imagining shaking him. Which is fine: Daylen wants to shake him right back.

"So are we all nothing more than our instincts?" Zevran asks. "The sum of our habits?"

That hits a little too close to the memory of Daylen's conversation with Alistair above Haven. Daylen opens his eyes to give Zevran a suspicious look. "Did Alistair tell you about that?"

"Alistair told me several things," Zevran says. "Things he should have told you, and likely would have, had he not panicked."

"Panic," Daylen repeats incredulously. "He panicked."

Zevran sighs, and when he goes on, his tone is softer. "Perhaps panic is too strong a word, but he was surprised, and overwhelmed, and in a situation where he already believed himself inadequate. He reacted without thinking." Zevran gives him a half smile and raises one eyebrow in question. "Can you honestly say you felt any differently?"

"I didn't feel inadequate until he looked at me like that," Daylen shoots back automatically.

Instinctively, even.

Daylen's anger crashes against that realization and stops, a wave against a levy. While he's still trying to recover, Zevran asks, "Would that be a yes, or a no?"

Surprised, overwhelmed, and feeling generally inadequate. Not words Daylen would normally apply to himself, and they feel even more out of place here. He's wanted to kiss Alistair for so long, it shouldn't be a surprise it happened eventually, and he'd felt himself slipping closer that whole afternoon. Overwhelmed is even more ridiculous: he'd been the opposite of afraid until everything exploded in his face, and he can't imagine being intimidated by Alistair under any circumstances. And inadequate is the most ridiculous of all. He _likes_ sex when he's in control of what happens, and he's been confident in his skills for a long time.

 _You might not want to mention exactly how long, not where Alistair can hear,_ the voice in the back of his head points out. _Unless you want to remind him what you are._

Not broken--he won't let anyone call him that, not even himself--but not whole, either. He thinks again of the Gauntlet and how much he feels like a human version of it: a maze to be navigated, and the prize at the center can't compare to Andraste's ashes.

All right, Daylen will grant Zevran the last point, then. He hadn't been aware of it in the moment, but he can't deny it now. The rest, though...the rest is still ridiculous.

Other meanings for the word "overwhelmed" rise unbidden to the top of Daylen's mind. He originally thought of the word in terms of fighting and power--of forced surrender--but the longer he considers, the more he begins to wonder if that's how Zevran meant it. Because Daylen would never have forced anything on Alistair, and he knows Alistair wouldn't do it to him, and he knows that Zevran knows both of those things.

Daylen remembers the way it had felt to have Alistair beneath him, the rightness of those moments when the rest of the world ceased to exist. Even before that, before Alistair had opened his eyes and given him that slow, sleepy smile, Daylen had wanted to melt into him, to let his body mirror what every other part of him already felt. He's never allowed anyone that close before, too aware of all the pain that would inevitably follow, and the intimacy of it had overwhelmed him.

And yes, shocked him. He's wanted to kiss Alistair for so long, and denied himself for so long, it had slipped into the category of dreams that would never really happen, like seeing mages given the same freedoms as everyone else. Even when he'd been close enough to feel the heat of Alistair's lips on his own, it hadn't seemed possible. To find out it was possible, that Alistair wanted him every bit as much as he wanted Alistair, was a shock surpassed only by the one he'd felt leaving Kinloch Hold with Duncan. Daylen's eyes and mind had insisted it was real, while his gut--his instincts--had insisted it was a dream.

Because until that point, it had always been a dream. A pointless wish, a hope for something he'd never have, and he'd long ago learned to dismiss any hope more ambitious than making it through an entire week without collecting any bruises.

"Habits," he murmurs, half to himself. His mouth twists, and he raises his eyes from where they've been fixed on his mug. "How nice to find even more shit the templars taught me."

"You are no more the sum of your habits than Alistair is the sum of his," Zevran says.

Right now, Daylen isn't sure he agrees, but he limits himself to, "Not every habit can be broken."

"No," Zevran agrees. "But most can be worked around, given time." He slides the mug from Daylen's loose grip and replaces it with his hand, his fingers warm and dry. "Or am I mistaken, and no one is more than what they were taught to be?"

Daylen stares down at their linked hands, at the knife scars on Zevran's and the burn scars on his own. Unsure himself if he's defensive or joking, he says, "They've been useful sometimes. Those habits."

Zevran makes a noise that's agreeable but not quite agreement.

"I'd probably have given up without them, in the Deep Roads." He knows he'd have given up at Kinloch Hold long before Duncan ever arrived.

"Fair enough," Zevran says.

The waiting silence that follows gets too heavy very quickly, and Daylen talks just to fill it. "I could send the templars a letter when this is all over. Thank them for their help in defeating the Blight."

Zevran gives a soft laugh. "I think your insincerity might be apparent even in written form. Perhaps better to let it lie."

"'What would I have done without you?'" Daylen quotes his own imaginary letter. "'My gratitude knows no bounds.'"

"Mm, yes, there would be the insincerity." Lulled by the amusement in Zevran's voice, Daylen isn't prepared when he adds, "You can be grateful for a skill, you know, without being grateful to those who taught it to you, or glad you were required to learn it."

"I know," Daylen says, even though he's uncomfortably aware that part of him finds the idea unfathomable. In his moment of distraction, that part of him sneaks to the fore and says, "It's hard though, isn't it? To know you're good at something only because of people you hate. I mean, if it's something I'm proud of, doesn't that have to change how I see them, at least a little?"

"No." Zevran's tone leaves no room for argument.

"I am what they made me," Daylen says softly. He frees one of his hands to press the heel to his temple. "Sometimes I don't want to be."

He wants to be someone Alistair wouldn't be afraid to touch. Someone who wouldn't get angry at Alistair for that fear.

"Would you call me a Crow?" Zevran asks.

It's apropos of nothing, as far as Daylen can tell. Confused, he drops his hand from his head and looks up to see Zevran's face. It doesn't help, so Daylen says cautiously, "You sneak like one. Fight like one, too."

"I have a Crow's skills," Zevran agrees. "But would you call me a Crow?"

A fraught question, Daylen knows that after fighting Taliesen, but he answers honestly, "It depends who's asking, but...probably not. I don't think of you as one."

"Good," Zevran says, then waits.

And waits.

When understanding finally hits, it feels like a kick in the chest, though it really shouldn't. After all, Zevran's words could be reduced to platitudes Daylen has heard before, sometimes even from other mages.

_"You can rise above it."_

_"You can be better than that."_

_"You can choose who you want to be."_

He'd refused to be placated by any of it. How could he ever be anything except what the templars made him? Most of his life before Duncan, he did things for one of only two reasons: either because the templars wanted him to, or specifically because they didn't. The latter was a rebellion in name only, he'd realized after a while, when what they wanted still controlled what he did.

Without meaning to, he touches his hair. It's grown out a bit since he cut it, but it's still short enough to remind him of the traitor in his own head.

Movement at the edge of his vision catches his attention: Zevran's hand reaching out toward him, moving slowly enough Daylen could avoid it or block it if he wanted to. Rather than do either, he tilts his head to accept the touch, allowing Zevran to stroke his hair. It doesn't feel quite so much like a reminder of failure when Zevran does it.

"Perhaps I chose a poor time for this conversation," Zevran says, "but I fear we have very little left."

Weeks only, before the darkspawn arrive. It's a sharp line, dividing their lives between "now" and "maybe never." Daylen nods and says as lightly as he can, "So you decided to do it while I was stuck in bed."

"You have much longer legs," Zevran says. At Daylen's blank look, he adds, "You could outrun me in a fair race, so I cheated."

"Just what I'd expect from an Antivan."

"I must uphold my country's reputation." His hand comes to rest on the back of Daylen's neck, and he leans in to press their foreheads together. "Think on what I said?"

"Cheat on races you can't win fairly. Got it."

Zevran squeezes the back of his neck in a mild rebuke. "Think on whether it might be worth talking to Alistair about what happened."

Daylen opens his mouth, then closes it again. Thinks. Says very softly, "It hurt."

"I know."

"It hurt a lot."

"I know." Zevran squeezes the back of Daylen's neck again, gently this time. "And I would never say that anyone is obligated to forgive that sort of hurt."

"But you think I should," Daylen says, only a little sarcastic.

"No."

That surprises Daylen enough he opens his eyes and leans away to see Zevran's face.

Mostly he looks amused at Daylen's surprise. "Did you think I was here to apply guilt like a whip, to drive you where I wanted you to go?"

"I...don't know," Daylen says, because despite what everyone thinks, sometimes he can be tactful. "What did you intend?"

"Only to say this," Zevran says. "Forgive Alistair or not, as you need, but make that decision on his faults and virtues, not solely on thoughtless words spoken in a heated moment." A twitch of his lips makes it clear the double meaning was intentional. "And I will return to pretending the two of you are adults capable of solving your problems without my assistance."

"At least it was just you," Daylen says. "I'll know I'm really in trouble if Leliana comes to talk to me about any of this."

"Is that what I should have done? Threatened you with Leliana?" Zevran gives the back of Daylen's neck a last squeeze and releases him. "Something for me to remember for next time."

"Maybe there won't be a next time," Daylen says.

"I think we would all prefer that, yes." Zevran's smile makes it a joke between the two of them as he stands and stretches. "But for now, drink your tea and sleep, before Wynne gives us both her most disapproving look."

"Maker forbid," Daylen mutters. Then he frowns in confusion. "Tea?"

It turns out that the kettle Zevran so painstakingly arranged by the fire contains tea, which he pours into a mug and presents to Daylen with a flourish. "Tea."

Daylen eyes it suspiciously. The smell is enough to wrinkle his nose, which doesn't bode well for the taste. "Tea." His tone isn't nearly as enthusiastic as Zevran's.

"And sleep," Zevran adds, in the overly cheerful voice normally reserved for children and the very elderly.

"Mm, yes," Daylen says. "I'm sure that will be easy. I'll lie down and be asleep in no time."

"Just between the two of us," Zevran says in a conspiratorial whisper, "but I suspect Wynne's tea may help with that."

Knowing Wynne, almost certainly. Daylen smiles reluctantly and raises the unwanted mug in salute.

Zevran doesn't stay much longer. He tidies up what little mess he made, then collects his book, gives Daylen an unexpected, paternal kiss on the top of his head, and lets himself out with a parting, "Pleasant dreams."

They're not the words Daylen hears in the silence after the door shuts.

_"Would you call me a Crow?"_

Not anymore, not after watching him turn his back on the Crows, even though that meant also turning his back on someone he'd loved for years.

 _"You should have stayed in Antiva."_ There had been sorrow in Zevran's voice, but a resigned sort of sorrow. He'd known what would happen if he refused Taliesen, but he'd done it anyway. The Crows owned him and shaped him for eighteen years, and he might have looked back before he walked away, but he still walked away.

Daylen knows exactly how long eighteen years can be: the Circle owned him for nineteen.

He takes a thoughtless sip of tea and regrets it instantly, his tongue curling at the bitterness. Ugh. It's too hot to drink quickly, so he sets it on the table with only the barest twinge of guilt. He will drink it. Just...not right now.

Because it probably does have something to make him sleep, and he doesn't want that. He wants to think while he has space and the quiet for it, two things that will be in short supply as soon as the rest of the household realizes he's awake and alert. Though if anyone can keep the queen of Ferelden and one of its most powerful arls away, it will be Wynne and Zevran. Later, it will annoy Daylen to be treated like an invalid, but for now, he doesn't want to see anyone, not even Alistair. _Especially_ not Alistair, not until Daylen has had a chance to think.

He stays in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, but he can't pick apart the tangle like that. Every time he tries, his thoughts twist back on themselves into pain and anger, and soon enough, he feels like he's being strangled. When he realizes the blankets are down around his hips and nowhere near his throat, despite what his mind is trying to tell him, Daylen groans in frustration and climbs carefully out of bed.

All his packs are where he left them, piled inside the trunk at the foot of his bed as a nod to keeping the room orderly without actually requiring him to unpack anything. If he survives the Blight--and any ill-fated attempts to force him back into a Circle--he's going to take a great deal of pleasure in spreading his belongings all over wherever he ends up calling home, never to be stuffed into bags again. In the meantime, he's learned it's not worth the effort to take out more than what he needs right now.

Which at the moment means a pair of trousers and a shirt. His own clothes, thank the Maker, stained and threadbare though they might be. When he's dressed, he rubs his hands up and down his arms to feel the rough cloth on his skin, until he realizes what he's doing and makes himself stop. Comforting as it is, it's not why he got out of bed.

His legs are steadier than he expected, and so long as he doesn't try to walk quickly, he can pace a circuit around the room without any problems. As a nod to the others' reaction should they find him bleeding on the floor because he lost his balance doing something he's not supposed to be doing, he keeps a hand on the wall or on one of the heavier pieces of furniture, even when he feels like he doesn't need it. He's given everyone enough of a scare for one week, himself included.

The rhythm of walking settles his mind, and once he's no longer tugging at the collar of his shirt to keep it away from his neck, he does what he promised Zevran he would do: he thinks. He goes back to that afternoon on the dock and steps through every moment, even the ones that make him cringe. He takes it a piece at a time, pulling the separate strands apart to examine each one, and he does his best to look at each one clearly, undistorted by fear or the protective anger that always wants to follow it. If he takes away a lifetime's worth of habits, if he doesn't let instincts honed sharp by the templars create new fears out of whole cloth, what does that leave behind?

Not much, it turns out, and while what remains is important, it's also not impossible. Alistair wanted to protect him, and if he took it too far when he reduced Daylen to a child incapable of knowing his own mind--when he refused to allow Daylen the right to say yes--Daylen can hardly claim the moral high ground. If the templars had tried to stop him from leaving Kinloch Hold, he would have put Alistair to sleep rather than risk him continuing to fight after Daylen was killed. For the best of reasons, perhaps, but it would have denied Alistair the right to make his own choice. Even if Alistair had chosen the path Daylen didn't want him to take, it was still his choice.

Alistair treated him like a child, but he treated Alistair like Barkspawn.

It's not a comfortable realization, and Daylen slides past it several times, willfully blind, before he notices what he's doing and makes himself look. And think. And stop feeding the anger to keep it burning hot. Being angry is so much easier. So much safer.

Daylen's latest circuit of the room stops at the window, and he stays there rather than continue walking. His thoughts are as settled as they're going to get. Now he needs to decide what he's going to do with what he's pulled from the rubble of that conversation on the dock.

Outside his window is a small stretch of the manor's grounds, mostly invisible in the moonless night. Beyond that is the city proper, buildings defined by the light spilling from open windows and leaking around cracks in shutters. Daylen isn't sure how late it is now, but based on how many--or how few--lighted windows he can see, it's past the hour for knocking on anyone's door unless it's an emergency. Which this is not, and it's tempting to set the whole thing aside, to tell himself he can deal with it later.

It's the same thing he told himself right after that disastrous conversation on the dock, and the same thing he's told himself a dozen times in the last year. Every time he could have talked to Alistair, he instead put it off for later, and Daylen can see for himself how well it's worked. Later is a pretty illusion, but an illusion is exactly what it is. Zevran is right about how little time they have left. Do it now--say it now--or maybe lose the chance forever.

Right.

Now it is.


	17. I'm Sorry, But I'm Still Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was right on schedule with this chapter until Monday night. I was giving it what was supposed to be a last read-through for nothing more than copy editing, and of course that's when I found a problem, despite having read it about 700 times before. And also of course, there were a ton of fires at work this week, so time and brainpower were limited. I do so love a 15-hour day. Sigh.
> 
> In any case, I hope it's worth the wait.

Daylen's thoughts are so entirely elsewhere, he spends a good while searching his room for his boots before he remembers that Loghain's soldiers destroyed them. The boots will be easier to replace than his robes, but for now, he'll have to go barefoot. One more thing demanding a portion of his time, and he frowns as he jerks his door open-

Alistair recoils, either in surprise at Daylen's sudden appearance or in alarm at his frown. Surprised himself, Daylen stares, completely at a loss as to what to say. He'd begun to consider how he would begin the conversation the two of them need to have, but none of those beginnings involved almost literally stumbling over Alistair in his doorway.

"Can I talk to you?" Alistair asks in a breathless rush.

Daylen is still stuck on this unexpected change in plans, his mind struggling to recover from yet another surprise.

"I mean, if you weren't going somewhere," Alistair says, then grimaces. "Never mind, forget I said that, of course you were, that's why people open doors, so they can go go somewhere. Somewhere else I mean-"

Alistair babbling nervously is so blessedly normal that Daylen's thoughts sort themselves out at last. "I was coming to see you," he says, stepping back into the room.

"Oh." By the look on his face, Alistair finds that terrifying. He also doesn't step forward.

"We can talk in your room if you'd rather," Daylen offers.

"What? Oh, sorry, no, this is fine, I don't mind, that's why I, um..." He trails off into embarrassed mumbling and ducks his head as he sidles past Daylen into the room.

His mind halfway back to almost functional, Daylen closes the door and considers what he saw in that first moment after he opened it. Alistair hadn't looked like someone about to knock. He also hadn't looked like someone about to walk away, but few people knocked on doors with their arms crossed over their chest.

"So," Daylen teases, "were you standing out there long?"

One corner of Alistair's mouth twitches in a quickly-suppressed smile. "Nice weather today," he says, mock innocent. He crosses to the window and looks out with the air of a man ignoring an impolite question at a party. "Not too hot."

It's so deliberately exaggerated that Daylen bursts out laughing, and something inside him that's been knotted up for weeks begins to relax. When Alistair smiles back, shy and relieved, that tangle unwinds itself a little more, and Daylen blurts out, "I've missed you."

Alistair's smile fades, replaced with a parade of emotions too fast for Daylen to identify. "I missed you, too. I wanted...I want..." He trails off, searching Daylen's face as intently as Daylen is searching his, apparently at a loss for words.

Daylen can sympathize.

To give himself time to think, he walks slowly toward Alistair, angling his path so he comes from the side and doesn't trap Alistair against the window. When he's close enough, he reaches out to touch Alistair's shoulder, the gesture only half thoughtless: the impulse is habit, but he recognizes it early enough he could have stopped it before his hand even began to move.

And maybe he should have, because Alistair rolls his shoulder to avoid the touch and catches Daylen's wrist instead. As little as Daylen likes being restrained, Alistair's grip is so loose it hardly counts, and Daylen is too busy trying not to be hurt by the rejection. Alistair has every right to decide he doesn't want Daylen to touch him, especially considering how badly it ended last time. It doesn't matter that he's always welcomed Daylen's touch before.

Daylen knows that, but it doesn't stop him from seeing it as another crack in the already-damaged foundation of their relationship. Whatever that relationship is, or will be, or could be.

"The morning after we left Kinloch Hold," Alistair says, his gaze on his hand where it's curled around Daylen's wrist. "We talked a bit, while we were waiting for everyone else to wake up."

He stops there, and after an awkward pause, Daylen says, "On the docks. I remember."

"You said something I've been thinking about a lot, but I was really tired, and I don't know if I remembered it right."

"I doubt my memory is any better," Daylen says, trying to keep his tone light.

Alistair's smile is brief, more an acknowledgement than actual amusement. "You said...you said that when we first met, you had to make yourself touch people."

"I had to teach myself to do it," Daylen corrects gently.

"And you said..." Alistair pauses, so tense Daylen can feel the hand around his wrist trembling. "You said you did it for me. Because I liked it."

So he did remember, and understand. Hope surges through Daylen and has him nearly stumbling over his words. "Because it made you happy."

Alistair closes his eyes and exhales hard. "Fuck."

The anguish on his face takes Daylen aback, and he has to stomp hard on the impulse to touch Alistair's cheek. Alistair has already made it clear he doesn't want Daylen to touch him.

"I'm sorry," Alistair whispers, while Daylen is still trying to understand where they left the path he'd thought they were on. "I'm so sorry."

"For what?" Daylen asks, confused.

"You should never have to do that," Alistair says, "especially not for me." He looks down at his hand circling Daylen's wrist, and he starts, dropping Daylen's hand so fast he practically throws it away from himself.

Understanding hits Daylen, and anger follows close behind, burning its way up the inside of his chest and carrying too many words he knows he'll regret later. He clenches his jaw around all of it, but that means he can't immediately cut Alistair off.

"I'm sorry," Alistair says again. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to touch me-"

"Stop." The word is sharp as the crack of a whip, and Alistair stops, mouth still open.

Daylen turns and strides toward the far side of the room, needing to move just as much as he needs to look at anything that isn't Alistair's face right now.

_"This is why it doesn't matter that I love you,"_ he wants to shout. _"Why can you listen to me so carefully on everything else and not on this?"_

Alistair draws a breath to speak, and Daylen holds up a hand without looking at him. "Wait. Please." The second word costs him, but not as much as he thought it would.

The room isn't large, and it doesn't take Daylen long to reach the far wall and return to Alistair. Not quite as close as he was before, and he stares into the fire rather than look at Alistair as he says through gritted teeth, "You are not responsible for my decisions. You don't get to apologize for them, and you don't get to act as though you made me do something _I_ decided to do. I don't need you to protect me, and I definitely don't need you to protect me from myself."

"Maker." Alistair scrubs his hands through his hair so hard it has to hurt, looking as frustrated as Daylen feels. "I'm fucking this up again, aren't I? I even practiced so I wouldn't, but I guess that was a waste of time."

"You practiced?" Daylen asks, momentarily distracted from his anger.

"Zevran made me," Alistair mutters, then looks up at Daylen in guilty alarm. "I didn't mean to talk to him about any of it, but he started it-" Alistair cuts himself off with a grimace. "Great, and now I sound like a five-year-old."

Daylen snorts a laugh, and why is it Alistair can make him laugh even through the anger seething to be let out? "He did the same thing to me. I think he wants to knock our heads together."

"Yeah, I kind of got that impression," Alistair says with a wry smile. "He seemed a little, um..."

"Aggravated?" Daylen offers. "Annoyed? Exasperated?"

"Close enough," Alistair says. He takes a deep breath and blows it back out in a rush, meeting Daylen's eyes very deliberately. "Can we start this conversation over? And pretend I remembered what I was supposed to say the whole time, not after I fucked it up once?"

Daylen thinks back to what Zevran said and hides a grimace. He's not doing much better than Alistair at sparing them a repeat of the disaster at Redcliffe.

"I think we fucked it up together," he says, "so I won't tell on you if you don't tell on me."

"Deal," Alistair says. He folds his arms over his chest, rubbing idly at the fabric of his sleeve rather than picking at it the way Daylen has seen him do in the past. "Zevran says I have to explain why I was scared, because...well, because it's not all one thing, even though it probably looked that way."

Daylen nods to show he's listening and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Just before the silence passes from awkward to excruciating, Alistair says, "I think you already know this part, but...before I met you, I never wanted men."

"I didn't know for sure," Daylen says, "but yes, I suspected."

"Realizing I wanted you was...not scary, exactly, but it was different, and it was a surprise. It took me a while to notice what was happening, and even after I did, I tried to ignore it. I didn't have a lot of friends growing up, so I thought, all right, this is what it feels like to have a really close friend, and isn't it great that I have one, let's try not to think about it too much."

Daylen is intimately familiar with that game. "I'm guessing it didn't work very well."

"It didn't work at all." Alistair hunches his shoulders briefly in an embarrassed shrug. "Honestly, I'm not sure how I believed what I was telling myself, because even I knew that some of the things I thought of doing with you aren't the kinds of things people do with their friends. Or at least, not people who are just friends."

"But you figured it out eventually."

"Eventually," Alistair says, emphasizing the word. "After I spent about a month dithering all the time, wanting to be near you because I liked you and wanting to be anywhere else because being around you confused me. A couple times when you were really close, my head was such a mess I froze up completely."

"Is it really that awful to be attracted to me?" Daylen asks, teetering on the edge of offended.

"Of course not," Alistair says. "It's just weird to go your whole life thinking you know what you want, and then find out you don't know yourself as well as you thought." He makes a face. "This is going to sound awful, and Zevran will probably kill me for saying it, but...it might have been easier if it wasn't you. It felt like the Maker was playing a joke on me, like He was saying, 'Here, not only do you get to be attracted to a man for the first time in your life, you get to be attracted to one who spent the first month you knew each other flinching if you moved too fast anywhere within ten feet of him.'"

"I never flinched," Daylen protests automatically.

"All right, twitched then." Alistair's tone makes it clear he's humoring Daylen. "I knew why, so I tried not to stand too close to you, and you'd mostly stopped by the time I realized I wanted to be more than friends, but it didn't really make me optimistic about my chances with you, either."

Daylen doesn't miss the " _mostly_ stopped," but he bites back the urge to argue. Whatever word they use, Alistair isn't wrong about the heart of it.

"And you _were_ my friend," Alistair says. "I didn't want to risk that. Maybe if I'd wanted you when we first met, and you hadn't..."

He stops, looking for a word. Daylen sighs and says, "Flinched."

Alistair gives him an apologetic shrug. "If I'd wanted you like that, and you hadn't flinched around me, maybe I would have taken a chance when we first met, but by the time we got to that point, the thought of losing your friendship was terrifying." He huffs a laugh. "Zevran was pretty terrifying, too, at least for a while."

"Zevran?"

"I thought the two of you were together," Alistair reminds him.

"The tent sharing, right," Daylen says. The amusement he felt when he first learned about Alistair's mistaken assumption is tempered now by frustration with both of them.

"I still say that was a perfectly reasonable conclusion," Alistair says. He's smiling, but it's tense. "And yeah, the tent sharing, but also...the two of you seemed so close. Are so close. If you'd been sharing a tent with Sten, I wouldn't have thought anything was going on, but Zevran is different."

"He is," Daylen allows, rather than make any of a half dozen sarcastic comments about the many differences between Sten and Zevran. Sten is judgmental, inflexible, and aloof, but he also got Leliana out of Howe's mansion, and he did his best to save Zevran. He had the presence of mind to recognize a losing fight, and the sense to retreat rather than waste more lives. For that, Daylen is prepared to forgive a lot.

"Even before you and Zevran were sharing a tent, I thought the two of you were together," Alistair says. "There was this one time, when you and I were standing really close, and I wanted to kiss you so much, except Zevran looked like he was going to murder me. He'd only been around a few weeks at that point, and I didn't know him all that well, so I decided it was probably better for my health if I worked really hard at pretending I only thought of you as a friend."

Daylen rubs his forehead, not sure if he wants to laugh or beat his head against a wall. The landscape of the last year is rearranging itself in front of his eyes, revealing all the places where his assumptions put chasms that didn't need to be there. Alistair's assumptions, too. Between them, it's a wonder they made it this far.

"That's what Zevran did, too." Alistair puts his hand briefly to his forehead, mirroring Daylen. "When I told him I'd been afraid of him."

Daylen lowers his hand. "I'm not surprised. Did he say what had made him so mad?" Since Zevran is almost never angry, Daylen has to wonder if Alistair saw something that wasn't there.

"He said he didn't remember anything specific but that he'd probably been mad at someone else for interrupting us. You and me." Alistair's face is turning red. "He said it only took him three days to get tired of watching us moon over each other, and the only reason he didn't lock us together in a room was because Leliana wouldn't let him."

Alistair's face is too red for that to be all Zevran said, and that's too intriguing for Daylen to let pass. "What else did he say?"

"Um, well, he said..." Alistair rubs the back of his neck and refuses to meet Daylen's eyes. "He said he was going to hide all our clothes and lock us in a room with a bottle of oil, some dirty Orlesian poetry, and about fifty pages of instructions, since we obviously needed all the help we could get."

That startles Daylen into a crack of laughter. "Did you ask him if he already had the poetry?"

"Maker, no! I couldn't even look at him." He dares a glance at Daylen. "Should I have?"

"I'll do it so you don't have to," Daylen says, grinning. Then he remembers what they were talking about, and his grin disappears. If they can't navigate this conversation and reach a place where Alistair doesn't treat him like he's fragile, then they might as well stop here, wish each other good night, and return to the strained politeness of the last few weeks. In which case, no amount of Orlesian poetry will help.

Alistair looks like he's thinking much the same thing. He's no longer blushing, but he's not smiling, either.

"That's another part of it," Alistair says quietly. He re-folds his arms across his chest and stares out the window into the darkened grounds, thumb tapping a fast beat against his arm. "After a while, I started to figure out that you and Zevran weren't _together_ together, but I still thought you were, um, fucking, and how could I compete with him? He probably doesn't even need a book, he can probably recite all those poems from memory. He knows...he knows what he's doing, and I...well, I don't."

Daylen opens his mouth to protest Alistair's dismissal of himself, but he doesn't get a chance.

"Anyway," Alistair says, rolling his shoulders as if shrugging off a cloak. "That doesn't matter. The point is, I was pretty confused for a while, and I was still trying to put it all together when we got to Haven."

He pauses, and Daylen resists the urge to prod him. By his expression, he's searching for the right words--possibly the ones Zevran made him practice--but when he continues, he doesn't look confident that he's found them.

"After I almost mashed you into that pillar, you talked about habits," Alistair says. "About how sometimes you do things because...because of the templars, and what they did. And you said you'd always have those habits."

"I also said I'd keep going anyway." Daylen tries to keep his voice mild, and to his surprise, it mostly works.

"I remember." Alistair's fingers are rubbing the fabric of his sleeve now, almost but not quite picking at it. "You said you'd keep going because you could, and I know you can, but you shouldn't have to just keep slogging through, fighting yourself. You should have the chance to be as free of the templars as you can, and I'm...well, I'm not a templar, but I know you can feel the power in someone, if they have it. You can feel it in me, which means I feel like a templar to you, and any habits you learned from them might carry over to me, and even if they didn't, touching me still feels like touching a templar."

"You're not a templar," Daylen says. His voice isn't as controlled now, despite his efforts, but if he's lucky, Alistair won't be able to hear the anger in it. "I'm not going to tell you yes just because I couldn't tell them no. A momentary reaction isn't even close to the same as fucking someone."

"I know!" Alistair says. "Believe me, I know, but then you do things like make yourself touch me when you don't want to, and...and I just..." He's no longer picking at his sleeve, but only because his hands are clenched around his upper arms. "I hate that I put you in a position where you felt like you had to do something just because I'm pathetic."

The anger lunges forward, and Daylen barely catches it in time. _Think,_ he reminds himself, no matter how hard it is when Alistair says things like that.

Alistair opens his mouth like he's about to go on, but Daylen cuts him off as gently as he can do anything right now. "Give me a moment."

At least this time Daylen is able to stay in one place while he thinks, his bare toes digging in to the hearthrug to replace any more noticeable movement. It takes him a while to strip away enough of the anger to find what hides beneath it and even longer to put his thoughts in order. Alistair waits in silence, the hiss of the fire the only sound in the room.

"First," Daylen says eventually. His jaw is starting to ache from being clenched, but at least he has the words themselves mostly under control. "Touching you was my choice. I'm allowed to decide I can tolerate something-" He holds up a finger to forestall what he knows Alistair will say to that. "-because a friend needs me to be there for them. I can judge my own limits and decide when it's worth it to push them."

He pauses, and part of him wants Alistair to speak, to give him a reason to stay angry. Alistair, thank the Maker, either doesn't know what to say or has the sense to say nothing.

"Second," Daylen goes on. "It wasn't exactly torture. I occasionally patted you on the back, I didn't..." About to say, _"walk naked into the templar barracks,"_ Daylen catches himself at the last moment. That might not be the best comparison he could make right now. "...stab myself in the hand or set myself on fire. Leaning on your shoulder was never going to ruin my day."

"You made yourself do a lot more than that," Alistair says carefully.

"Which brings me to my third point," Daylen says. Holding on to his temper feels like trying to hold on to Barkspawn when someone is raising a bow to shoot at him, but it's getting easier the longer he talks. "Even when I was still at Kinloch Hold, I never hated touching people, not if I had a say in it. I didn't do it very often..."

_"...because I was too angry."_

_"...because I didn't see the point."_

_"...because no one taught me how."_

"...for a lot of reasons, but it turns out one of those reasons was habit. I didn't actually have a problem with it when it was someone I trusted, and once I got used to it, I liked it. Not just when it was you, either."

He thinks of Zevran sitting on the side of his bed, their foreheads pressed together. A year ago, Daylen wouldn't have known what to do with that, and being uncertain would have made him hate every moment of it. Now, the memory of Zevran's closeness is almost as much of a comfort as his physical presence was a few hours ago.

"So if anything, I should thank you." Daylen manages a strained smile. "If not for you, I doubt I would have thought to try, and honestly? That thought upsets me a lot more than anything I ever felt when I touched you, even on a bad day."

"Ever?" Alistair's tone is neutral, but Daylen can hear the skepticism anyway.

Since he knows what Alistair is thinking about, Daylen can't really blame him. "I said something when it would have been hard for me," he points out. "I asked you not to get too close, and you didn't. You listened to me."

Alistair dips his chin in a small nod but stays quiet.

"So all those times I didn't say anything?" Daylen asks. "Assume it was all right, because it was."

His temper is beginning a sullen retreat, and he has to stop himself from finding reasons to hold on to it. He feels vulnerable without it.

Then it flares momentarily as he remembers something. "And fourth," he says sharply, "don't call yourself pathetic."

Alistair gives a startled laugh and holds up his hands, palms toward Daylen. "All right, I'll try to remember." His smile fades. "I'll try to remember all of it, but it's hard sometimes."

"Because one time, I was startled and reacted out of habit?" Daylen absolutely does not grit his teeth. "And then I didn't choose my words as well as maybe I could have?"

"It's not that," Alistair says. "Or, it's not just that. I mean, yeah, it was in the back of my head a lot, and it made me hesitate a couple times when I thought about trying to tell you how I felt. Feel." He gnaws his lower lip for a moment. "But sometimes it was just an excuse. Because I wanted to tell you, but then I'd think, no, don't tell him, if he was interested in you like that, he'd have said something, don't make this harder for him."

When Alistair doesn't go on, Daylen asks carefully, "So you'd stopped worrying that I didn't like touching you?"

"By then, yeah." Alistair smiles sheepishly. "Which is why I needed a new excuse. The last time I really worried about it was in the Deep Roads, after...." His smile vanishes, his expression turning grim with a shadow of the fear and anger and revulsion they'd all felt.

"After," Daylen agrees, trying to let Alistair know that he doesn't have to explain. Too many things from those last weeks in the Deep Roads are carved permanently into Daylen's memory, but one of those is Alistair gripping his hand painfully tight while stroking his hair so very gently.

Daylen thinks of what he said to Zevran, that anger was what had kept him going in the Deep Roads. He'd thought the words were true when he said them, but now he realizes they weren't, not entirely. "That meant a lot to me," he says to Alistair. "That you came after me. That you stayed when I asked you to."

"I didn't know what to do when you walked away," Alistair says. "You looked like you were going to be sick, and there wasn't anything I could do. I'm not a healer, and it's not like I could tell you everything was fine, because that would have been bullshit. Stupid bullshit. So I just thought, if you threw up, you might want some water after."

"I did." Just one of many things he hadn't realized he wanted until it was offered.

"I almost couldn't walk away," Alistair says. "After I saw you, I mean. You were hurting that bad, and I was just going to give you some fucking water and then leave you there? It felt like the worst thing I could do." He sighs. "I guess I was right about that, since you did want me to stay. I'm sorry I made you say it, though."

Daylen grips the hem of his shirt to keep his hands at his sides and tries to think how to make Alistair understand. How can he explain something that sounds absurd even before he tries to fit words around it?

Alistair looks miserable, though, so Daylen says, "I don't pretend this is logical, but...if you hadn't walked away, I wouldn't have wanted you to stay." That just makes him sound contrary, and while he can be, that's not what happened in the Deep Roads. "I made it clear I wanted to be left alone, so you brought me one thing I really did want, something I hadn't thought about, and then you went away again. Or were about to."

"I know." He still sounds unhappy, but he's studying Daylen's face now. He's listening, too, because of course he is.

The right words are suddenly there. "You listened to me," Daylen says. "When I wanted you to leave me alone, you did, and when I wanted you to stay, you did. You didn't try to pretend everything was fine, or that you knew what I wanted better than I did. You _listened_ to me, and that's what I need you to do now."

"I will," Alistair says. "Or...I'll do my best. For whatever that's worth."

"It's worth a lot," Daylen says. "It surprised me when we first met, but you've always listened to me. You've always tried to understand."

"Of course I do," Alistair says, more confused than unhappy. "Why wouldn't I?"

_"And that's why I love you."_ Daylen swallows the words back. This conversation is already hard enough; he can't bear to risk one more thing on it.

"Just because someone hears," Daylen points out, "doesn't mean they listen." He can't quite keep the dryness from his voice, but Alistair either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"I know, but you're my friend." He hesitates, and his expression adds _"maybe more?"_ before he goes on. "You listen to me, too."

"Not always as well as I should." Alistair looks like he's about to argue, and Daylen hurries on. "If me asking you to stay is what made you realize I didn't mind touching you, then at least something good came out of that trip."

"Other than a treaty with the dwarves?"

Daylen waves a hand dismissively. "Oh, well, that too."

It wins him a quick smile. "It did help, you asking me to stay," Alistair says. "I worried less about touching you, about whether you minded touching me, and then after I got shot, you...you were there a lot, and you really did seem to be all right with it, so..." He trails off with a shrug. "I hadn't worried about it in months by the time we got to Kinloch Hold."

"What changed?"

"You scared me." As soon as the words are out, Alistair winces. "All right, that wasn't how I meant to say that."

Daylen takes a deep, silent breath and stops the anger that's trying to rise. Wait. Listen. Don't just react. "How did you mean to say it?"

"Better than that," Alistair mutters to the window. Then he meets Daylen's eyes, and when he speaks, it's slowly, each word chosen carefully. "That night at the inn, before we went to the tower? You came downstairs to supper, and you looked like you were ready to fight a fight you already knew you'd lost. Like making them kill you to stop you was the only victory you were going to get." He runs a quick hand through his hair, ruffling it slightly. "This didn't help."

Daylen frowns in confusion and raises a hand to his own head. As soon as his fingers touch the close-cut hair on the side of his head, he feels like someone turned his blood to ice. Alistair knew what that meant. Alistair knew before he did, and that's terrifying.

"You scared me," Alistair says again, quietly this time, and the words feel very different now. "I was scared for you, and I was angry at myself for making you...for _asking_ you to go back there, and all I could think about was you saying that you'd keep going no matter what."

Frozen in place, Daylen just sits and stares at him. The anger is gone, snuffed out by the realization that Alistair saw more, understood more, than Daylen thought anyone saw or knew.

"I forgot again for a little while, when we were at Redcliffe." Alistair is back to staring out the window, but his words are clear in the otherwise-silent room. "The whole time we were in the lake, it was like you were looking for excuses to touch me, like you wanted to be close to me, wanted me to touch you. And I wanted to. Want to." His voice gets quieter with every word. "But I also don't want to be one more thing you endure because you won't let them win."

Daylen can't speak, can't move, can't breathe. The past is rearranging itself again, and this time, he sees himself from the outside, as he must have seemed to Alistair. He can't even say that what Alistair saw was wrong; it wasn't the whole picture, but it was frighteningly accurate for what it covered.

"I was scared of a lot of things, when it came to you." Alistair's voice is down to a whisper. "But that's what scares me now, even though it sounds stupid when I say it out loud. I don't know anything about...about romance, or relationships, or...or sex, so how would I know if you wanted me to touch you, or if you were just putting up with it?"

There are so many things Daylen wants to say, he doesn't know where to start. Alistair, misinterpreting his long silence, adds, "Please don't laugh," and Daylen's throat tightens.

"I'm not." He has to force the words out, but it's worth the pain. "I won't ever, I promise." His next breath sounds very loud in his own ears. "I'm just trying to let you finish."

"That was it, really," Alistair says, finally looking back in Daylen's direction. His face is tight with nerves, his fingers twisting the sleeve of his shirt again. "I fucked it all up so badly the first time, and whatever else happens with us, I want you to know that I..." He falters, his eyes searching Daylen's face. "I want you to know that I've never thought you were weak, or helpless, or broken."

Daylen is very aware of how Alistair might have intended to finish that sentence, which only scatters his thoughts more.

"I mean, look at everything you've done," Alistair says, clearly made nervous by the silence that stretches out as Daylen tries to find the right words. "How could anyone think you're broken?"

_I manage it just fine._ The thought makes Daylen wince internally, both for being true and for being a truth he prefers to keep buried.

Either something of that wince comes through, or the continuing silence is winding Alistair tighter; he keeps talking, his voice getting louder and faster. "It's just, you've done so many amazing things. Fifty years from now... _ten_ years from now, everyone's going to think the stories about the Fifth Blight are exaggerated." He's practically vibrating now, oblivious when Daylen tries to get a word in. "People won't believe anyone could do all the shit you've done. You...you're fucking amazing, and I feel like a fucking idiot that I can't say this right, that I can't ever think of anything to call you other than amazing, but you are, and-"

"I like it when you call me amazing," Daylen says, forcing his way into the flow of words. Maybe he still doesn't know what to say, but he can't hear Alistair call himself an idiot and let it pass unanswered.

Alistair opens his mouth only to close it without saying anything. When he finally does go on, his cheeks are red and his voice quieter. "Fragile is the last word I would use to describe you. I watch you do all this shit, and sometimes I'm just in awe of you. I'm pretty sure that if you decided you wanted to fly, you'd figure out how to do it. Maybe you'd just glare at the ground and dare it to get in your way."

Daylen's mouth twitches. "You never know, it might work."

"For you?" Alistair asks with a shake of his head. "Yeah, it probably would." He blows out a long breath and says softly, "It's just, you've already done so much. Life kicked you hard, and you...you took it and you didn't break and you didn't decide to kick everyone else when the whole thing got flipped around and you could have. The world handed you shit, and you're trying to save it anyway."

"Not all of it," Daylen says. "The archdemon can have the templars."

"All right, _most_ of the world," Alistair says with a smile, before he looks away again. "Sorry, I didn't mean to ramble. All I'm trying to say is that I know you can take care of yourself, I just don't think you should have to. Like when we're in a fight: I stand between you and the people with pointy things. I'm there to take the hits so you can hit back harder."

"I thought it was because you liked to make them grumpy."

"That's fun, too," Alistair allows, but he doesn't smile. "I know you could take the hit if you had to, I've always known that, but I don't want you to have to, and I _really_ don't want touching me to be one more thing you have to endure."

Daylen understands now, or thinks he does. He knows the difference between _"You need my protection"_ and _"I want to protect you,"_ and thin as the line sometimes seems, there's just as much difference between _"I want to protect you"_ and _"I'm afraid of hurting you."_

He forces himself to breathe deep and slow--once, twice, three times--before he asks the question that's at the front of his only-somewhat-organized thoughts. "How did you know that this," he touches his hair, "meant anything at all? Maybe I just wanted to look presentable."

"I don't know," Alistair says. "Your expression was part of it, but also...when you got to Ostagar with Duncan, you'd been away from the Circle what? A week? Two weeks?"

"Eight days."

"Less than two weeks. So I knew how short you used to keep it, and I knew you hadn't cut it in almost a year, not really, even though Leliana offered a couple times. You'd shave your face so carefully, and then hack off enough hair to keep it out of your face and call it done. After a while, you didn't even do that, you just tied it back."

"We were on the road a lot."

Alistair gives him an exasperated look. "You crowned the fucking king of Orzammar with your face shaved so clean it was shiny and your hair looking like you'd been attacked by a pair of scissors. You bought new robes because the old ones had bloodstains on them, you told me I needed to cut _my_ hair, but you couldn't be bothered to make your own look halfway decent? And I was supposed to think that didn't mean anything? It took me until Kinloch Hold to understand _what_ it meant, but I knew it meant something."

It sounds obvious when Alistair lays all the pieces out like that, except for the part where he had to pay enough attention to collect all those pieces in the first place. And why is Daylen surprised to learn that Alistair was paying as much attention to his actions as to his words?

"You understood it before I did," he says to Alistair. "I didn't realize why I'd cut my hair so short until after we'd left the tower."

"That's what scares me."

"I know." Anger flickers at the back of Daylen's mind, but it's easy to smother. "And I understand, but if you're always going to worry I don't want to touch you, even when I've told you I do, then..." Daylen doesn't want to finish the sentence, and he's grateful for the excuse to stop when Alistair shakes his head.

"I didn't worry about it all the time, I really didn't." He snorts a laugh. "Most of the time when you touched me, the only thing I worried about was whether I was going to do something stupid like try to kiss you."

" _Is_ that stupid?" Daylen asks, smiling a little.

Alistair darts him a quick look from the corner of one eye. "I don't want it to be."

"Me neither. Which I think means it isn't." Daylen locks his hands behind his back to keep himself from trying to touch Alistair.

"I thought about it all the time," Alistair says. "Only, I figured it was never going to happen, so it was kind of a surprise when it did, and then I didn't know what to do."

"You were doing fine as far as I was concerned."

"Until I...you...we..."

"Until it went to shit," Daylen supplies.

"Yeah. Until it went to shit." Alistair's arms are still crossed over his chest, but loosely now, his hands flexing idly on his upper arms. "Anyway. When we first met, I worried about whether you actually wanted to touch me, and then I started worrying about it again after Kinloch Hold, but in between? Not really."

"Good, because I like touching you." Other words fill Daylen's throat, and he wants to cut them off, to protect himself the way he has since he was old enough to understand what it meant to be a Circle mage. But as much as he wants to protect himself, there are other things he wants more, and he'll never have them if he doesn't take the risk. He's not prepared to risk _"I love you,"_ but he's going to have to risk something. "I've missed it, the last couple weeks."

"Me, too." Alistair looks as tentative as Daylen feels, but also a little hopeful, a little less tense. "I've missed it a lot."

"I want to touch you right now," Daylen says, "but not if you'll spend the whole time wondering if I'm lying to you, or to myself, about whether I want it."

"I want you to touch me," Alistair says softly. "I want to touch you." His cheeks flush, and he looks off to one side with an embarrassed cough. "All right, that sounded different in my head. I didn't mean it like, um..." His eyes cut toward the bed, then widen and jump back to Daylen's. "I mean, that's nice too, I didn't mean-"

"Alistair," Daylen says, trying not to laugh as the last of his anger dissipates. "It's fine. I know what you meant. But just to be clear..." He catches Alistair's gaze and holds it, no longer smiling. "I want to touch you, and I want you to touch me, and I mean that in every possible way."

Heat flares in Alistair's eyes, and Daylen is very glad he's not close enough to touch, because he's not sure he could resist that look if all he had to do was reach out his hand. He would have to step forward, though, and the feel of his body gathering itself to take that step reminds him of something important.

The silence between them is humming, but Daylen tries not to let it show in his voice as he says, "Is it all right if I touch you now?"

He waits for Alistair's nod before stepping in close, so close he has to fit his bare foot between Alistair's booted ones. Each movement slow and deliberate, Daylen slides his hands across Alistair's cheeks and around to the back of his neck, tugging him gently forward until their foreheads rest together. After a moment's hesitation, Alistair lets one hand rest lightly at Daylen's waist and the other, even more hesitantly, against his cheek, thumb barely grazing the skin beneath his eye.

It's not as close as Daylen wants to be, but it's a start. He squeezes the back of Alistair's neck gently, rubbing at the taut muscle as he tries to find the line between lying by omission and doing Alistair a kindness by glossing over details that would only hurt him unnecessarily. The first seems more dangerous than usual right now, but too much truth serves no purpose, either.

"When we met, I did think of you as a templar," Daylen says at last. He's not sure it's the right thing to say, but keeping quiet is what got him in trouble before, and he can't pretend Alistair's fears are groundless.

Alistair tenses but doesn't try to pull away.

"I _used to_ think of you as a templar," Daylen says. "I don't anymore, because you're not one of them. Sten made me see it the first time, but once I looked, it was everywhere, in everything you do." And it's taken Daylen far too long to give Sten credit for that particular gift. "It's not who you are."

Alistair doesn't say anything, but Daylen knows he's listening.

"I don't have a way to prove that saying yes to you has nothing to do with them." And how Daylen wishes that he did. "All I can do is ask you to trust me. Trust me to tell you when something is wrong, because I already trust you to listen when I do."

Alistair is quiet a long time, his thumb on Daylen's cheek stroking idly back and forth. "I'm trying," he says at last. "I really am."

"I know." Daylen cups Alistair's cheek with one hand and smiles, hoping Alistair can hear it. "And I'll try not to surprise you anymore. Deal?"

"Deal."

"In the interests of holding up my end of that deal," Daylen says, "I should tell you that I want to kiss you."

Alistair's breath catches, and his hand at Daylen's waist grips painfully tight for a moment.

"Is that all right?" Daylen asks.

Alistair's answering nod is enthusiastic, but as soon as Daylen's mouth meets his, he freezes.

"Relax," Daylen murmurs, pulling back enough to talk. "If I haven't told you something is wrong, assume it's all right."

"I don't want you to have to say it," Alistair says. "I want to not do it wrong in the first place."

"I hate to tell you this," Daylen says, "but that doesn't work for _anyone_."

"At least someone else would know what they were doing," Alistair mutters. "I don't even have that."

"And someone other than me wouldn't have so many ways for things to go wrong."

Alistair sucks in an angry breath, and Daylen squeezes the back of his neck before he can voice whatever protest he's about to make. "Shhh. If I'm not going to blame myself for being more trouble than..." He realizes he's about to say, _"more trouble than I'm worth"_ and stumbles for a moment until he can find better words. "...than a lot of people, then you don't get to blame yourself for not having any experience."

_Yes,_ says the nasty little voice in the back of Daylen's head, _but he'll get more experience, while you'll always be difficult._

Just like it did at Redcliffe, shame reaches up out of the darkness and knocks Daylen breathless. It hurts now every bit as much as it did then, and anger rushes up right behind the pain. He fights the anger down, but that leaves him nothing except the ache in his gut as the shame reminds him again of all the things Alistair deserves in a lover.

_All the things you aren't,_ the voice in his head points out, and Daylen can feel everything slipping out of his control, spiraling back down into disaster-

Alistair leans forward and kisses him, the hand on Daylen's waist sliding around to the small of his back, pulling Daylen against him. Alistair is shaking, but he's trying, his mouth moving awkwardly against Daylen's unresponsive one, his fingers stroking the hair at Daylen's temple.

Daylen tilts his head to change the angle of the kiss, curls his own fingers tight around the back of Alistair's neck, and says cordially to the voice in his head, _Fuck you._

Because whatever that voice says, Daylen knows what Alistair deserves. He deserves someone who will protect him. He deserves someone who will laugh when he makes ridiculous jokes but not when he says, _"I'm afraid of hurting you."_ He deserves someone who trusts him.

And maybe Daylen is more like the Gauntlet than he wants to be, but he can be all of those things, too. He wants to be all of those things. He's trying to be all of those things, and he'll keep trying until he gets it right.

If pain isn't a reason to stop fighting, then maybe hope for something better is a reason to keep fighting. Maker knows he's always been shit at giving up.

The kiss isn't passionate, but Daylen is too tired for passionate anyway, and he suspects Alistair is as well. He needs sleep--they both need sleep--and he needs to make himself take this one step at a time. If inexperience were the only reason Alistair was so hesitant, Daylen would never dream of pushing for more. Thinking of it in those terms helps, and Daylen tries to keep that thought in the front of his mind, rather than everything that little voice wants to taunt him with.

He eases back from the kiss and says, "We should sleep."

"Yeah," Alistair says, without enthusiasm. "I know."

"Not tired?" If the last week had been a little less draining, Daylen would definitely be too keyed up to sleep.

"No, I'm tired. I'm really tired." Alistair's fingertips trace Daylen's cheek. "I just don't want to go." He sounds like he's apologizing for something.

"So don't," Daylen says. "That bed is big enough for both of us."

Alistair stiffens, and Daylen reminds himself to breathe. He's not getting angry. He's not.

Exhaustion is good for something, it turns out.

"To sleep," Daylen elaborates. "I meant you could _sleep_ here, with me."

"Oh." Alistair sounds like he's going to say something else, but he doesn't.

"Only if you want to," Daylen says. Inexperienced. Alistair is inexperienced, nothing more. "But I'd like it if you did."

When Alistair nods mutely, Daylen kisses him again, light but lingering.

"Come on," he says against Alistair's mouth. "Before I fall asleep right here."

Getting ready for bed is an awkward dance, neither of them used to accommodating another person's routine. At least the ridiculousness of a dozen iterations of "oh, sorry, excuse me" means Alistair is more relaxed by the time they get into bed. They're both still wearing shirts and trousers, but they're getting into the same bed, so Daylen can accept the risk that he'll wake up feeling like his shirt is strangling him. He can always take it off at that point, if he does.

Alistair tenses again when Daylen curls around him, and Daylen whispers, "Shhh," against the back of his neck. "Go to sleep."

Daylen then can't follow his own advice: falling asleep beside someone as nervous as Alistair isn't easy. Gradually, though, Alistair relaxes back into him, a little at a time until he's starting to tense up again not because he's trying to hold himself apart but because he's trying to push himself deeper into the curve of Daylen's body.

"Shhh," Daylen whispers again. He wraps his arm more securely around Alistair's chest and leans into him, twisting their fingers together when Alistair presses a hand over top of his. Alistair's grip is so tight it hurts, the pain more than physical.

"I'm here," Daylen says. "I'll be here, I promise."

Alistair sighs, and Daylen doesn't know if the hitch at the end is only in his imagination. Whether it is or not, Alistair pushes one of his feet back between Daylen's to tangle their legs, and loosens his grip on Daylen's hand without releasing him.

The knowledge of how effectively he's trapped hovers at the back of Daylen's mind, but it lacks the power to unsettle him. Maybe he'll never lose the habit of looking for things like that, but it doesn't mean he has to care. To spite the voice in the back of his head that insists on reminding him what can happen, he hooks his own foot more securely around Alistair's and lets himself drift off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this chapter was, "In which everyone uses their words." :)


	18. Punch Hard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a story flow standpoint, I'm always frustrated by the fact that we're in Denerim, but then we have to hie off back to Redcliffe only to come back to Denerim, so I'm ignoring that for this story. We're in Denerim. We're staying in Denerim. I'm also playing around with the timing of things a bit, making some things happen further apart than they do in the game. Because I can do both of those if I want, and anyway, I don't think anyone is here for a painstakingly canon-compliant story. :)
> 
> I know the ever-changing chapter total is annoying, so for plot-tension-calibration purposes...by word count, this puts us about 80% of the way through the story.

Daylen wakes up disoriented and too warm, unsure where he is or why Barkspawn seems so large under his arm. She's less furry than usual, too. And why is she in the bed with him?

That's the thought that lets him orient himself, because Barkspawn was banned from the house itself as soon as they arrived. If he'd been thinking at all when he regained consciousness yesterday, her presence at his bedside would have told him as much as the pile of Alistair's armor. Someone smuggled or argued her in, which wouldn't have been an easy task. The man in charge of Eamon's Denerim estate had been adamant when Daylen tried.

A very un-Fereldan attitude as far as Daylen is concerned, especially given how intelligent mabari are, but also not something he was prepared to fight over when there were so many other arguments waiting for his attention. The kennels here are nicer than some of the houses in the alienage, and the grounds extensive enough to keep Barkspawn occupied for days. It's not as if she slept in his tent every night, or even most of them, especially not in the summer. He'd missed her anyway, and missed the comfort of knowing she was nearby if he did need her.

Now, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Alistair's chest under his arm, Daylen suspects she may be relegated to the kennels, or at least the floor, from now on. He feels the tiniest bit guilty but not at all sorry.

He does have to do something about the blankets, though, before he sweats to death. Alistair gives off more heat than Barkspawn, something Daylen wouldn't have thought possible, and the layer added by his clothing only makes it worse. Tonight he'll have to set a cooling spell so he can sleep next to Alistair without smothering from the heat. The thought glows in his mind, a light he shields from anything that might blow it out. Tonight. Alistair will be here tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after...

Daylen stops himself there, because there aren't many nights left between this one and the archdemon's arrival. What happens on the other side of the line separating now from then is a blur of hopes and fears he doesn't want to examine too closely. The reality will be here soon enough.

Alistair is here now, and that's what matters.

That, and getting rid of the blankets without waking him up.

An impossible task, it turns out: as soon as Daylen tries to slide his arm free, Alistair jerks awake, his hand clamping down to pin Daylen's against his chest. He relaxes his grip almost immediately with a mumbled, sleepy apology that makes Daylen feel like every cliché in every terrible romantic ballad he's ever had to suffer through.

"Not going anywhere," he murmurs to Alistair. "Just need to get rid of the blankets."

Obligingly, Alistair kicks the blankets off the end of the bed without letting go of Daylen's hand, then mumbles, "Bett'r?"

Daylen is very glad no one is here to see his face and the ridiculous smile on it. "Much better."

"Good." Alistair pulls gently on Daylen's arm until they're pressed together again, and his sigh of contentment does nothing to help Daylen feel less like a soppy idiot.

"You know," he says against the back of Alistair's neck, "when I asked you to stay, I didn't know that meant I'd be sleeping next to a forge."

"'m better than a forge," Alistair informs him, still sounding sleepy.

"Are you?" Daylen teases. "How so?"

He's not sure what he's expecting, but it isn't for Alistair to roll over inside the circle of his arm to put them face to face. Alistair's eyes are heavy with sleep, his face lined with creases from the pillow, and Daylen is struck by the sudden urge to say, _"Fuck all this, we've done our part. Riordan can deal with the archdemon, and you and I can go somewhere I'm allowed to plan past the end of next week."_

He can't--he won't--but it's so tempting he can't think of anything else to say.

Alistair frowns in concentration and cups Daylen's cheek in one hand, thumb brushing his lips. Skin catches lightly against skin and destroys any hope of Daylen saying anything intelligent. It doesn't help that Alistair is leaning in, closing the distance between them with painful slowness, his gaze on Daylen's mouth until the last moment when his eyes slide shut.

The kiss is soft, Alistair's mouth barely resting against his, but Daylen doesn't push forward or try to deepen it. He'd rather see where, and how far, Alistair will take this. There's an unexpected pleasure in the slowly building tension, the heat spreading gradually through him rather than exploding. Sex at Kinloch Hold was almost never slow, not when the risk of getting caught was so high, and for all Daylen's experience, this is new: arousal without fear lurking below the surface. Sometimes fear added a thrill to the whole thing, but most of the time it was just one more distraction to be shut out.

He's having no trouble shutting out everything else right now. Half asleep as he is, Alistair seems to have forgotten to be anxious, and Daylen is hungry for every one of those relaxed, easy touches. He feels like he's floating the way he was at Redcliffe before everything blew up, drifting in the warmth of Alistair's body and the reflected warmth building gradually inside him.

Daylen is too lost in that warmth to notice the kiss deepening, Alistair pressing closer by degrees so small they can't be marked. The kiss never turns fast or rough, it just spirals constantly upwards into more, Alistair's tongue touching his lips, then slipping between them, then stroking over his tongue, Alistair's mouth opening for him to lick and suck and apply the gentlest hint of teeth, until they're both gasping and hard, hips rocking together-

The knock on the door is so forceful it does more than startle them apart: they roll off their respective sides of the bed and come up ready for a fight, Alistair with his sword and Daylen with fire dancing in his palm. They stay like that a moment, searching for the threat, before they realize what's happened at nearly the same time.

"Fucking Andraste," Daylen mutters, clenching his fist to extinguish the beginnings of the spell. On the other side of the bed, Alistair shakes his head as he sheathes his sword. "It fucking well better be important."

It isn't, and worse, by the time he's sent the guard away with a reply to Eamon's message, Alistair is awake enough to remember all his reasons to be nervous. He's half sitting on the side of the bed, his red face turned down and a little away from Daylen.

"Um, sorry," he says to the floor as Daylen walks over to him. "That, um, that got a little...I mean, it was...I didn't...or, I did, but I don't..."

Daylen can fill in the gaps, and he's glad for the extra moment to shove his disappointment into a box where it belongs. All he has to do is think about the fact that Alistair is _here_ , in his room and in his bed, to feel almost as light as he did when he first woke up. And if Daylen ignores the nasty voice in the back of his head, Alistair's anxiety and embarrassment look like they have more to do with applying the word "tease" to himself than with calling anyone else fragile.

"Hey." Daylen touches the underside of Alistair's chin to get him to look up. "It's all right. Did you have fun?"

"Yes, but..." He swallows and looks away.

"No 'but,'" Daylen says. "I thought it was a great way to wake up."

"We didn't...um...you didn't..."

"Doesn't matter." He leans down to kiss Alistair's mouth, then changes direction and kisses him on the forehead instead. Alistair's mouth is dangerous territory right now. "You had fun, I had fun, now I get to have a lot less fun, because Eamon wants to talk strategy. When this is over, I swear to the Maker I'm going to set fire to anyone who makes me talk about politics."

Alistair smiles reluctantly, his shoulders easing down from the vicinity of his ears. "I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do," Daylen says. He makes himself drop his hand from Alistair's chin and move away to find something clean to wear. "I'd hate to have to set you on fire."

It has the desired effect, and Alistair has relaxed enough to give Daylen a parting kiss that lingers longer than necessary before he heads off to his own room. Daylen closes the door behind him and waits for a count of ten, then bolts the door as quietly as he can, braces his forearm against the door and his head against his arm, and jerks himself off as fast as he can to the memory of Alistair gasping against his mouth.

When he can stand without the door's support, he goes to clean up so he can find out what new crises were discovered while he was unconscious.

###

In some ways, the day that follows is no different than the weeks before Anora's kidnapping. Daylen spends most of it staring at maps and listening to strategies: military, political, and sometimes both. Where possible, he steers the conversation away from that last, because if they have to remove Loghain from the throne by force, then Ferelden is well and truly fucked. The leading edge of the darkspawn horde is closing in on Denerim, rolling north and east and leaving blighted land behind. They don't have time to fight each other.

Despite Eamon's protests, Anora joins their discussions, and Daylen listens to her carefully. If they succeed in ousting Loghain, then Daylen's voice could very well make the difference in how the Landsmeet votes, and he needs to know what kind of queen Anora would be. Tempting as it is, he can't afford to cast his vote based solely on what would annoy Eamon most.

After the first day in her company, Daylen isn't sure he likes her, but he's also cautiously hopeful about what would happen to Ferelden if she rules it. She's practical, for one thing, and she sees what no one else seems to: the future Daylen is trying not to think about, the one that comes after a victory over the archdemon. The worst heat of summer is past, and for the first time in his life, Daylen dreads the colder weather that's bearing down on them, as deadly in its own way as the darkspawn. To say that the coming winter will be ugly is a kindness. Even if Loghain and the archdemon are both dead: half the country is without food or shelter, darkspawn will be everywhere because they won't simply disappear when the archdemon dies, and bandits will fill in where the darkspawn haven't reached. Surviving the archdemon is only the first step, and whoever rules Ferelden has to be someone who understands that.

Watching Anora plan and argue and build new plans from pieces of the old, Daylen can well believe that Cailan was king in name only. She's smart, and for all her sharp edges and sometimes-abrasive manner, she listens, which is more than could be said for Cailan. If Daylen were given the power to choose which of them was with him now, the only reason he would choose Cailan would be to end this civil war, and even that might not tip the scales enough. They don't need honor and glory; they need bread and swords and soldiers, and Anora knows it.

Her reaction to his explanation of broodmothers only confirms his opinion of her. The others already know--it was one of the first things he told them--but no one thought to share the information with her in the time Daylen was unconscious. She listens quietly, her face pale and her mouth pressed into an increasingly tight line, and when he's done, she gives him a single sharp nod to say she understands. She doesn't shout or wring her hands or insinuate he's lying or delusional. She simply takes the information and folds it in with everything else she knows, no matter how awful a truth it is.

In Daylen's opinion, that makes her a better candidate for the throne than half the people in this room.

Other than Anora's presence, the day feels like every other in the past two weeks, and Daylen leaves Eamon's office drained and exhausted. He still has to get through supper, even if he's not hungry, and he wonders how angry Wynne will be if he uses magic to replace the meal. It's just a little magic, after all, and he won't make the mistake of supplementing it with lyrium.

A moot point, it turns out: Alistair is waiting for him in his room, and he brought food.

"I thought you might have forgotten to eat," Alistair says. He's sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, and if it weren't for the knife he's sharpening, Daylen would simply fall on him. Or haul him straight to bed so Daylen can sleep wrapped around him.

"Thanks," Daylen says, though the food holds no appeal. He's too tired to be hungry. He'd rather fold himself stiffly down to sit next to Alistair, leaning heavily against his shoulder with his eyes shut.

The desire to sleep pulls at him, and he slips gradually sideways. His shoulder against Alistair's becomes his head on Alistair's shoulder, then against his arm, and then finally on his thigh. Alistair doesn't seem to know what to do with that, the muscles under Daylen's cheek tense, but when Daylen curls a loose hand around his ankle, Alistair sets aside his knife to rub gentle circles into Daylen's scalp with his fingertips.

Daylen hums in pleasure and rubs his cheek against Alistair's knee, too tired to want more than this. The floor is uncomfortable despite the hearth rug, but Daylen is drifting toward sleep anyway.

"No," Alistair says, sharply enough that Daylen rolls away from him to sit up and blink in confusion.

"Sorry?" He's not sure what line he crossed, but he hadn't meant to even push any.

"No," Alistair says again. He points at Daylen, and then at the tray of food, looking stern. "Eat first. No trying to distract me."

Daylen grins at him, too sleepy to hide how much the comment pleases him. "Am I distracting?"

Alistair snorts. "You have no idea. Now eat."

The tray is piled with too much food for one person, but Daylen eats enough of it to make Alistair happy and then stretches back out the way he was before, with his head on Alistair's leg. If it's too early to drag Alistair to bed, then this will do for now.

"Thank you," he says, the words half muffled against Alistair's leg.

"You never eat," Alistair says, resigned and affectionate. His fingers are stroking Daylen's hair, combing through strands that are finally long enough to be called something other than stubble.

"I eat," Daylen protests. "You make me eat all the time. And I meant, thank you for being here."

Alistair's hand stills. "I wasn't sure if that was all right."

_"Always,"_ Daylen wants to say.

"Best part of my day," he says.

"I'd be more flattered if I didn't know how you spent the rest of your day." Alistair sounds pleased, though, and he resumes petting Daylen's hair, gentle strokes that lull him to sleep.

###

The next day is much the same, except that it also includes Eamon's final attempt to get his way on the subject of who Daylen will put forward to take Loghain's place. Eamon isn't stupid enough to have such an argument in front of everyone, or maybe he thought he'd be able to intimidate Daylen if Daylen had no friends or witnesses present.

Either way, it rebounds on him like an uncontrolled fireball: without witnesses present, Daylen doesn't have to be nice, or even polite. Eamon can't match a templar for intimidation, he has no control over the treaties that are bringing the Dalish and the dwarves of Orzammar to Denerim, and he isn't the one who presented Andraste's ashes to the Chantry There's no personal or political threat he can make that Daylen can't best, and Daylen takes an obscene amount of satisfaction in pointing that out.

The conversation goes downhill from there.

Eamon is red-faced and seething by the end, but he doesn't have a choice, and eventually that fact breaks through a lifetime of privilege and power. There's a little more blustering after that, but Daylen waits it out with ill-concealed impatience. He stands by the window staring out, hipshot and with his arms folded loosely over his chest, fingers tapping idly against his upper arm. A part of him is appalled at the rudeness, and another part at the rudeness to an arl, but as far as Daylen is concerned, Eamon lost his right to polite niceties a long time ago.

When Eamon finally surrenders, a guard is dispatched to fetch Anora and Alistair. Daylen would prefer to bring in Anora only--he can see Eamon plotting one last attempt to get his way, appealing directly to Alistair and circumventing Daylen--but he lets it go. The guard is unlikely to let Daylen contradict her arl's orders, and Daylen would prefer not to argue in front of witnesses. Whatever words they throw at each other in private, he and Eamon need to present a united front to everyone else.

The silence that follows the guard's departure is deeply uncomfortable, but Daylen is prepared to wait it out on sheer stubbornness. Eamon is either less stubborn or determined to find some way to salve his injured pride.

"I'm a dangerous man to have as an enemy." Eamon's voice is cold enough to burn.

Daylen turns, smiling his sharpest smile. "So am I."

Eamon is every inch the arl, superior and aloof. "I don't think you understand exactly how much power I have in this country."

"Mm," Daylen says, pouring everything he has into sounding utterly bored. "Did you mean right now, when your lands are full of darkspawn you need my help to turn back? Or later, when I'll be the one who saved Ferelden and put her queen on the throne?"

He holds Eamon's gaze and smiles, the smile Greagoir used to wear when he was simply waiting for the other person to admit who had the power.

The door opens, and there's just enough time that at least they don't look overtly hostile when Alistair and Anora come in. It seems that on this, at least, Eamon and Daylen are in agreement: no one else needs to know exactly how nasty their argument became.

There's a brief shuffling of chairs as they all find places to sit around the map table, but they're no sooner settled than Eamon turns to Alistair and does exactly what Daylen suspected he would.

It's a doomed effort that Eamon sabotages further by suggesting a new alternative: Anora and Alistair marrying. Daylen gives it a slow count of five to allow Eamon time to appreciate the horrified looks on both Anora's and Alistair's faces, then he addresses Anora as if Eamon hadn't spoken. "I hope you know that I'll support your claim before the Landsmeet."

Which is the day after tomorrow, Maker save him. Too soon and not soon enough.

Anora gives Daylen an appreciative nod, then her sharp gaze flicks to Alistair. "And you? Maric's son would have considerable support in any bid for Ferelden's throne. Now or in the future."

"You can have it," Alistair says, all but recoiling.

"And he'll say as much in front of the Landsmeet," Daylen cuts in smoothly. He knows exactly what Anora is thinking, and he curses himself for not considering it before now.

"What about any children he might have?"

"I'm right here," Alistair says, waving his hand pointedly.

Anora's eyes narrow briefly; Daylen doesn't know her well enough to know if it's in amusement or irritation. "All right. Will you stand in front of the Landsmeet and give up any claim to the throne, for yourself and for your descendants?"

"Of course," Alistair says. "But the descendants part isn't going to matter."

"You have no children now," Anora says, waving that aside. "But who knows what the future holds, and sometimes accidents happen."

"I, um, really don't think it's ever going to matter. I hope it won't." The tips of Alistair's ears are turning red, and he stares at the map instead of meeting anyone's eyes.

Daylen fights to keep a straight face and wonders if Anora and Eamon know he's the one Alistair is trying to avoid looking at.

"But I'll do it anyway," Alistair adds hastily, as if he's just realized that what Daylen understands to be a milder form of nervous babbling could look like something else entirely to Anora. "Of course I will. I'll write it out in blood if it will help."

"Ink will do for now," Anora says. Daylen hopes she's joking about the "for now."

There isn't much to discuss after that, beyond a few details and a brief debate over the exact wording of the speech Alistair will deliver to the Landsmeet. Eamon is quiet, but he contributes a suggestion or two and otherwise gives no sign that he and Daylen were nearly shouting at each other about this very subject only a short time ago. Daylen is uncomfortably aware that if their positions were reversed, he's not sure he would be so gracious in defeat.

As the discussion winds down, everyone getting to their feet, Eamon says quietly, "Another moment of your time, Warden?" and Daylen wonders if he's about to have cause to withdraw even that faint praise.

But there are witnesses present, so... "Of course."

When they're alone again, Eamon sighs heavily. He hasn't moved from his seat by the table, and he toys idly with a map counter as he says, "I don't think this is what Maric would have wanted."

"I don't think it much matters," Daylen says, but he tries to say it gently. Eamon looks tired and defeated, and Daylen may not be a gracious loser, but he can at least try to be a gracious winner. "He's not here to get a say."

"He's not," Eamon agrees. "And I know he didn't expect Cailan to die so young, but he would have wanted Alistair to succeed him, now that it's necessary. Maric would have wanted him to be king."

Daylen bites back several answers that, even angry, he knows would serve no purpose other than to antagonize Eamon further. Still, he can't let Eamon's neglect go entirely unmentioned. "Then you should have raised him to be a king."

"That could have been disastrous, if Cailan had lived."

"Then at least not a templar. Or a stablehand." Daylen isn't exactly overflowing with patience for anyone right now, least of all Eamon.

Eamon raises one hand to concede the point and looks at him for the first time since Anora and Alistair walked into the room. "I hope you'll take good care of him."

Daylen stares at him, taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." The look Eamon gives him has nothing to do with being an arl and everything to do with being thirty years Daylen's senior. "Take care of him."

There's no implied "or else" in his tone or his expression, which is the only reason Daylen doesn't say, _"It won't be hard to do a better job than you."_

"I intend to," he says instead, a little surprised he's able to think of something that's both tactful and true when he's still angry. "For as long as he wants me to."

"Good," Eamon says. "Thank you."

_"It's not for you."_

Rather than say so, he gives Eamon a nod and a mostly-polite farewell. He feels sick from swallowed anger as he steps out into the hall, wishing he could wipe away the memory of Eamon's expression. All this time, he's assumed Eamon didn't truly care about Alistair, and finding out otherwise makes him want to scream. That Eamon loves Alistair and still did nothing to protect him is worse than if he didn't care at all.

Anora is waiting for Daylen when he turns the corner, and he gives serious thought to simply turning around and going back the way he came. He doesn't want to talk to anyone right now, and he doesn't want to look at anyone who isn't Alistair.

"Your Majesty," he says. He gives her a nod and tries to keep walking, but she steps forward. Not physically blocking his path, but so clearly wanting him to stop that walking past would be rude.

"Warden," she says with a return nod. "I'd hoped to have a word with you in private."

"How private?" Daylen asks, looking up and down the empty hall.

There it is again, that flicker of an expression that might be irritation or amusement. "This will do for now," she says. "I merely wanted to ask why you don't want to put Alistair on the throne."

"There's no need," Daylen says. "Ferelden has a queen." It's blatant pandering, but it's also true, and all he wants is for this conversation to be done.

She cocks her head to one side and considers him. "Most people would be quick to crown their lover, given a chance as sure as this."

"Does everyone know about us?" Daylen asks irritably, ignoring her question.

"I don't know about anyone else," she says. "I had wondered, but I wasn't sure until our discussion with Eamon just now. Which brings us back to my question."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because as much as I value your support, I want to know its limits. Will it disappear tomorrow, or next year, or the first time I do something you don't approve of?"

_"Unless you start selling your people into slavery, no."_

"Probably not," Daylen says, because he has a limited supply of tact, and he's already used up most of it today. "And even if I did change my mind, it wouldn't be Alistair I'd try to put in your place."

"Why not?"

"Because he doesn't want to be king."

She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to go on. When he doesn't, she gives him a small frown of puzzlement. "Is that all?"

"What other reason do I need?" Daylen asks, his expression mirroring hers. Does she think he's lying?

"You could be not just Ferelden's hero, but also its ruler in all but name."

"Assuming we survive," Daylen points out. His supply of tact is definitely running low.

"Every plan we make is based on that assumption," she says sardonically. "But all right, yes. _Assuming we survive,_ you could rule Ferelden through Alistair."

"He doesn't want to be king," Daylen repeats. Why is this so hard for people to understand?

"You'll give up that power because he doesn't want it?"

"Yes," Daylen says, and reminds himself that patronizing the queen of Ferelden is probably not a good idea. "I'm not going to make him do something he doesn't want. Not something like this, anyway."

Her gaze sharpens. "But there are situations where you would."

"Of course there are." He's reasonably sure she's not being deliberately obtuse, which is the only reason he takes the time to think of an example that isn't sarcastic. "If he got hurt and didn't want to let Wynne look at it, I'd hound him about that for days. Only fair, since he'd hound me if it was the other way around."

Anora isn't usually easy to read, but there's a moment where confusion turns to surprise and then to longing. It's all gone in a blink, and she gives him a tight smile. "So he doesn't want to be king, and because you love him," Daylen tries not to wince, because he really wasn't ready to have anyone say that out loud, "you won't ask him to do it. How interesting."

Her sarcasm and the flash of pain that preceded it make him want to strangle someone, if only he knew whether he was strangling Loghain, Cailan, or someone else in Anora's past. Since Cailan is dead and Loghain will be shortly, Daylen supposes it doesn't much matter, but occasionally he thinks the only reason he's fighting the darkspawn is because he's too stubborn to let anyone else win. Maybe the world doesn't deserve to be saved when it's so full of people like the templars, and Eamon, and whoever hurt Anora.

"I'm sure it's a terrible idea," he says, matching her sarcasm, "but I thought I'd try it anyway. I'm good at terrible ideas."

Her mouth curls in a faint smile. "So I've noticed."

That stings a little, but Daylen tries not to let it show. "You wouldn't be the first."

"And yet," she says, still smiling, "you seem to have a talent for making those terrible ideas work anyway."

"Maybe I'm just lucky."

"If that's true," she says, "then I hope we have a chance to toast your luck, when this is over."

"Or my terrible ideas."

She inclines her head, then says briskly, "I'm sure you must be tired, so I won't keep you any longer. Thank you for your time, and your answers."

Daylen bids her farewell and continues on toward his room, but he can't shake the conversation from his head. Anora and Eamon between them have his thoughts turned inside out, and the more he tries to get them in order, the more the knot in his stomach tightens. By the time he's opening his door, his hands are shaking.

Alistair looks up from his seat by the fire, his smile fading at whatever he sees in Daylen's face. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Daylen says automatically. Then he closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with the heel of one hand. "Mostly." Andraste's ass, how can his head hurt this much from two brief conversations? "I think."

There's a rustle of cloth and the scuff of bare feet as Alistair gets up and crosses to him. "That doesn't sound all right."

His fingers brush Daylen's cheek, and Daylen catches them to bring them to his lips, wanting to touch but not wanting to be touched right now. He feels shaky inside, for no reason he can name, and even his irritation at himself isn't enough to ground him. Alistair's touch could unbalance him completely, and he needs to be in control.

"If you needed something," he says without opening his eyes, "you'd tell me, right?"

"Of course," Alistair says immediately. Then, more cautiously, "You'd tell me if you did?"

Daylen nods and presses Alistair's knuckles to his forehead, rubbing at the ache there. "I wish I could give you everything you want," he whispers, "but I can't. Even things I should be able to give you, some of them...some of them I _can't_."

"I don't care," Alistair says. He sounds worried, and Daylen reaches out blindly to touch his cheek. "I want you. I want to be with you. Everything else is just...just details."

"I want to give you those details," Daylen says. "And I can't, not all of them, but...but if there's something you _need_? I don't care what it is, I'll find a way to get it for you." It's a dangerous promise, or it would be, if he were making it to anyone else. "All you have to do is tell me. That's all you ever have to do."

"I know." Alistair sounds like he means it, like it's obvious, and Daylen's chest aches. "But right now I just need you to tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," Daylen says. "Not like that. I'm tired, mostly, and I let myself think too much about how many assholes there are in the world." He rubs Alistair's knuckles harder against his forehead. "And that I really can't feed them all to the darkspawn."

"Yeah, I don't think that will work. But I could probably find a couple for you to throw off the wall when the archdemon gets here. Maybe use them for bait. Like fishing."

Daylen snorts out a surprised laugh. "I'll suggest that to Eamon, next time we're talking about something other than politics."

"Don't worry about giving me credit," Alistair says hastily.

"I wouldn't want to steal your idea," Daylen says. "That would be terrible."

"No, no, it's fine! Really, I don't mind."

Daylen shakes his head, smiling. "As long as you're sure."

"Very sure. Completely sure. Absolutely, totally-"

The rest is lost in the surprised noise he makes when Daylen kisses him, but he recovers quickly and returns the kiss, his arms sliding easily around Daylen, and oh. Right. This is why he's not letting the darkspawn win, even if it means he also has to save some people he'd just as soon use for bait.

When the kiss is in danger of falling into territory they should probably avoid, Daylen breaks it gently and steps back. "Is there anything to eat here, or will I have to brave the walk to the kitchen?" It's the most mundane thing he can think to ask, and mundane is what they need right now.

"You remembered to be hungry," Alistair says, clutching his chest as if his heart is about to give out from the shock. "Now I know something is wrong. And of course there's food."

Of course there is. Daylen hadn't doubted for a moment that there would be, and he can't help but smile. A smile that might be a little too warm, because Alistair ducks his head, cheeks turning pink.

"I've been standing for hours," Daylen says hastily. "If I don't sit, I'm going to fall over, and I think I've done enough of that for one week."

"Maker, yes." Alistair cups his elbow to guide him to a chair, far enough from the fire to avoid the heat. The last week has been typical for early autumn, the weather unable to decide whether it's still summer or almost winter, and today was one of the former.

Daylen isn't so tired he couldn't make it to the chair on his own, but he likes Alistair's closeness. Even the heat he radiates isn't enough to make Daylen want more distance between them, especially when he can do something to make that warmth less uncomfortable.

At the first touch of cool air, Alistair sighs in relief, but that doesn't stop his sideways look as Daylen settles into the chair. "If you're tired, don't worry about it. I'll be fine."

"What makes you think that's for you?" Daylen asks with a smile. "And besides, nine-year-old apprentices can do that spell." When Alistair continues to look skeptical, Daylen adds, "You can ask Wynne."

"It's not that I don't believe you," Alistair begins hastily, dropping to one knee to put them eye to eye.

"But you don't believe me," Daylen finishes for him. It's a little irritating, but... "I brought it on myself, I know."

"I'm just worried about you, that's all."

"Nice dodge," Daylen says. He strokes Alistair's cheek with light fingers. "And I swear on Barkspawn, I'm not over-exerting myself again. My feet are tired, not the rest of me." Certain parts of him in particular are very much enjoying the sight of a kneeling Alistair.

It doesn't help when Alistair goes to fully kneeling and sits back on his heels, lifting one of Daylen's feet up to rest on his thigh while he works on unlacing the boot. Thank the Maker he's looking down and not up, because Daylen needs a moment to get his expression under control.

_"You look good on your knees."_ Not the first time he's thought it, but certainly the first time since he realized that wanting Alistair wasn't an exercise in self-torture.

"Are the new boots all right?" Alistair asks, oblivious to the direction of Daylen's thoughts.

Boots. Think about boots, and the annoyance of breaking in a new pair, even boots as expensive as these. Another advantage to having money and at least the implied friendship of an arl: Daylen didn't have to find somewhere to sell him decent boots and better-than-decent robes. The boots and the robe came to him, quickly and of the best quality that some very expensive merchants could provide. As a result, he had a new pair of boots when he got up this morning, and by the muted hum of magic from the table, his new robes arrived sometime today while he was closeted with Eamon.

"Daylen?"

"Huh? Oh, the boots are fine, just new."

Alistair finishes with the laces and pulls off both boot and sock, then lowers Daylen's foot to the floor. His hand stays curled loosely around Daylen's ankle for a moment, his thumb brushing gentle arcs over the bone, and when he finally does let go, his fingers trail down Daylen's foot all the way to his toes, just firm enough not to tickle. Daylen doesn't dare breathe for fear the harshness of it will give away that his enjoyment of this has nothing to do with the relief of sitting after standing most of the day.

Alistair moves on to the other boot, and Daylen tries to breathe like he isn't imagining all the other things Alistair could be doing with his hands. As soon as Daylen pushes one image away, another replaces it, each more obscene than the one before it. It feels like Alistair is moving at a speed only slightly faster than the rate at which grass grows, though intellectually, Daylen is aware that his sense of time might be a trifle skewed. Someone would have knocked on the door to tell them the archdemon had arrived if Alistair really was moving as slowly as he seems to be.

It's a relief and a disappointment when he finally finishes, his fingers stroking Daylen's foot much as they did the other. At least it means Daylen can return to breathing like a normal person, before he passes out.

Except his breath catches in his throat again when Alistair looks up, eyes dark and face flushed. Daylen has to grip the arms of the chair to stop himself from hauling Alistair forward into a kiss. A kiss with intent.

They stare at each other, Daylen's fingers aching and Alistair's hands curled into fists where they rest on his thighs. Now that Daylen is paying attention, he can see the rapid rise and fall of Alistair's chest, too quick for someone dispensing with a simple chore.

Alistair swallows so hard Daylen can hear it, and his voice shakes a little as he says, "I could suck you."

Maker save him. Daylen hasn't gotten his lungs to work from before, and that does not help in the slightest.

"If you want," Alistair adds, hesitant now.

Right now, there's very little Daylen wants more, but it doesn't escape his notice that Alistair is nearly vibrating with tension. Daylen takes a long, deep breath and asks, "Do you want to?"

Alistair's eyes dart away. That's an answer all by itself, one that's confirmed by his uncertain tone when he says, "Yes?"

"You don't sound very confident," Daylen says gently. He isn't sure if touching Alistair will make this better or worse, so he keeps his hands to himself for now. "What made you offer?"

"I don't know." Alistair rolls his shoulders the way he does before a fight, an unconscious movement that says more than he realizes. "I was here, and you were there," a wave of his hand indicates their relative positions, Daylen in the chair and Alistair on his knees, "and I like touching you, and I know getting...ummm... _that_ is something people like, so I thought, maybe you'd like it, and I could do that for you."

Now Daylen does touch him, one finger to the underside of his chin to make him meet Daylen's eyes. "Like helping me take off my boots?" he teases.

Alistair blushes a darker shade of red, but he also smiles. "Maybe not quite like that."

"Like what, then?" Daylen asks, keeping his voice soft.

"I don't know." Alistair sounds frustrated with himself, and his hands are flexing on his thighs. "I just...I always like doing things for you, but this time it was more, I wanted it more, I wanted to do more. I wanted it a lot." By the blush that's now turned his whole face scarlet, it's easy to translate that last sentence into, _"It made me hard."_

Daylen considers a while, then asks, "Do you like being on your knees for me?" The answer seems obvious, but he needs to hear Alistair say it aloud, to acknowledge it.

"I don't know!" Alistair's hands are clenched around fistfuls of his trousers. "I know you don't mean just kneeling, but I don't know what you do mean. I don't know what it means here, like this."

"Hey," Daylen says, stroking his cheek. "It's all right. I want to know what you like, that's all. There's no wrong answer."

"I hate being an idiot," Alistair mutters. Daylen opens his mouth to object, but before he can, Alistair amends that to, "I hate being ignorant. I hate not knowing things I should know."

"No reason you should know them," Daylen says. "All you ever have to do is ask me. I'm not going to make fun of you, I promise. And I was trying to clarify what it was that made you hard." Alistair looks embarrassed, but he doesn't contradict the words. "Was it helping me with my boots specifically, or was it doing something for me in general?"

Alistair blinks and looks at Daylen's boots in mild confusion. "Do people like boots? Like that?"

"Some people do," Daylen says matter-of-factly. He has no intention of sharing the various uncomplimentary opinions some people have about what other people like.

"I don't," Alistair says, but then he hesitates. "I don't think I do? But I, um, I definitely liked taking them off for you, so maybe that means I do?"

"Or maybe you just like being useful."

Alistair's face brightens. "Yes! Yes, exactly."

"You told me that, you know," Daylen says, amused that Alistair doesn't recognize his own words when Daylen has thought of them a hundred times. "Right after we left Lothering."

"I did?"

"You did." Daylen brushes his thumb across Alistair's lips. "I've thought about it a lot since then. About how good you would look on your knees, just like this."

Alistair's eyes widen, and he swallows. "D-do I...um...?"

"Look good on your knees?" Daylen finishes for him. "That would be an understatement. You don't know how much I wanted to say yes when you offered to suck my cock."

"But you didn't."

"Because you didn't want to. You wanted to do something for me, but you don't really want to go that far yet, do you?"

"Part of me does," Alistair offers.

Daylen's mouth twitches in a smile he hopes doesn't come across as mocking. "Ask me again when all of you does."

"I want to want to," Alistair says. Daylen smiles sympathetically--he knows all about that--but Alistair looks away and misses it. "I want a lot of things. It's just...it doesn't feel right to do any of them."

"Oh?" Daylen asks, pushing away the defensive anger that tries to leap forward.

"If I'm not going to, um, finish it, I shouldn't start it."

_This,_ Daylen points out triumphantly to the angry part of him, _this is why we make sure there's a reason to be mad before we set people on fire._

"You're not casting a spell," he says aloud. "It's not like it was a waste of time unless you finish it. If you're enjoying what's happening, that's reason enough to keep doing it, but it doesn't mean you have to go further. Kissing me doesn't obligate you to suck my cock."

Alistair's blush has mostly faded, but a hint of it returns at those words. "R-right, I know."

"Good." Daylen wants to touch his face again but decides it's better to ask his question first. "Do you like it when I kiss you?"

"Maker, yes."

"Do you want me to kiss you right now?"

Alistair hesitates, then nods guiltily. "Yes, but-" He cuts himself off when Daylen makes a warning noise.

"Yes or no," Daylen says. "I'm not asking about more than kissing you, and I'm not asking about later. Do you want me to kiss you right now?"

"Yes," Alistair breathes. He meets Daylen's gaze again, his eyes dark. "I want it a lot."

All it takes is a light touch to the underside of his chin to have him rising up off his heels, putting him at a better height for the quick kiss Daylen gives him.

When that's all Daylen does, Alistair opens his eyes, puzzled until he sees Daylen's grin. "You're an asshole," Alistair informs him, sounding much more like his usual self.

"What?" Daylen asks, feigning confusion. "Was that not what you wanted?"

Alistair's hands cup his face with surprising confidence and draw him forward. Just before their mouths meet, Alistair repeats, "Asshole," grinning.

Daylen doesn't get a chance to answer before Alistair's mouth is on his, lips already parted, and Daylen forgets about talking. He buries his hands in Alistair's hair, returning the kiss and then some. No passive waiting this time, as much as Daylen enjoyed it yesterday morning. Now he matches every move Alistair makes and shows him more, until they're both gasping and Daylen isn't sure if this was a great idea or a terrible one. He wants to run his hands over every inch of Alistair's skin, and when that's done, he wants to retrace his path with lips and tongue and teeth.

Instead, he pulls away, his hands on Alistair's face to keep a few inches between them as Alistair leans in, trying to recapture his mouth.

"All right," Daylen says in a hoarse whisper. "I'm pretty sure that's the limit on what you said yes to."

By the look on Alistair's face, he would say yes to a lot more if Daylen were to ask right now.

Daylen does not ask, no matter how much he wants to. "We should stop."

"Probably," Alistair says. He sits back on his heels and scrubs both hands roughly over his face, then blows out a long breath and lets his hands drop to rest on his thighs. "Um, yeah. Definitely."

The combination of disappointment, embarrassment, and relief on his face is all the proof Daylen needs that stopping was the right decision. Certain parts of his body disagree, but he tries not to let those parts do his thinking for him.

"Food!" Alistair says, rising abruptly to his feet. "You should eat."

They're both back on steadier footing by the time he's brought Daylen the usual excessive quantity of food and frowned at him until he eats whatever Alistair considers "a start." Daylen is smiling, and he can see the smile hiding behind Alistair's exaggerated disapproval, and he wishes he could stop time, stop everything and keep them here forever, safe and happy and together.

"Hey," he says, steadying his plate with one hand and reaching out with the other. Alistair takes it in both of his, bending forward to press his cheek to the back, and Daylen's eyes burn, suddenly, unexpectedly.

The shock of it helps him fight the tears back, because he doesn't cry for anything other than pain bad enough to make him scream at the same time. He certainly doesn't cry when he's _happy_.

"Sit here," he says, tugging on Alistair's hands and guiding him around to sit in front of the chair. Alistair goes along willingly, and once he's settled, he rests his head against Daylen's leg, rubbing his cheek idly back and forth in small arcs. When Daylen combs fingers through his hair, Alistair nearly purrs, and for a moment, tears burn Daylen's eyes again.

"You're supposed to be eating," Alistair says without looking up.

"I'm eating!" Daylen protests. "I have food right here."

"You need at least one hand free to eat it, though."

"I could be using magic."

"But you're not," Alistair says with certainty.

Looking down at him, Daylen thinks again about letting the world burn itself to the ground so he doesn't have to risk even one more fight that could take Alistair away. He would never be able to do it--and if he could, he'd never persuade Alistair--but for right now, he wants to pretend it's a possibility. He wants to ignore the cold knot forming under his ribs and the voice in his head reminding him how much it will hurt if Alistair dies.

Reminding him how much safer it was when he didn't care.

Alistair curls his arm around Daylen's legs and presses himself closer with a contented sigh. "Eat," he says into Daylen's thigh, the word too sleepy to be called an order.

Daylen makes a point of chewing noisily, and he can feel Alistair's smile.

_You're only making things harder on yourself,_ that coldly practical voice says.

_But think how many meals we would have missed without him,_ Daylen says to it, deliberately flippant.

As if food is the only thing he would have forgotten he needed, without Alistair to remind him.


	19. The Gods Striking Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points to anyone who catches the Shrek quote. :) Somehow, it just seemed to fit.
> 
>  **Content warning:** this is a two-for-the-price-of-one deal, where one scene could hit two potential triggers. Please make sure you at least glance at both, because one might not be what you're expecting.  
> 1\. Flashback: if you've read the tags, then you can probably guess that any flashback will not be lighthearted fun. It's not graphic, and it's actually on the line between flashback and just ("just") unpleasant memory, but...yeah.  
> 2\. Real-world parallels: the details of the flashback have some unintended parallels to things in the news recently. I wrote it months ago before those things happened, but the fact that the events didn't influence my writing doesn't change that they might affect someone else's reading.
> 
> If you want to read the chapter but avoid the part that prompted the warning, it's easy if you don't mind skipping about 1500 words. Riordan shows up twice, once at the Landsmeet and then later in Daylen's room. When he shows up the second time, skip from there to the next scene break. If you want to cut it closer, read through Riordan's visit and all the way to the paragraph where Alistair gives Daylen a hug after Riordan leaves. From the hug, skip five or six paragraphs until the next line of dialogue. That is cutting it pretty close, though.

After everything else that's happened, the Landsmeet is almost anti-climactic. Daylen will give Eamon credit, no matter how little he wants to: all the maneuvering and bargaining and manipulation bring them to exactly where they need to be. They've backed Loghain into a corner and blocked every escape they can. His demand for a trial by combat is a last gamble, the act of a man who knows he's lost but refuses to go quietly.

Daylen can admire him for that, at least.

Riordan's suggestion, when it comes, shocks Daylen momentarily speechless for one of the few times in his life. Spare Loghain and make him a Grey Warden? It's a ludicrous idea for so many reasons, from the political to the personal, and Daylen has to work not to laugh in Riordan's face.

Predictably, Riordan's arguments are all built on the assumption that Daylen is holding a grudge over Ostagar. It's not something Daylen would ever admit out loud, but in the privacy of his own head, he's willing to grant the possibility that Loghain has been telling the truth all along about that battle. He's been commanding armies since before Daylen was born, and it's possible he looked at the darkspawn horde and saw a fight already lost. If that's true, then the only sensible action was to withdraw, to not waste soldiers' lives trying to save a king who couldn't be saved. Daylen can grieve for Duncan and still see the sense in Loghain's decision to withdraw, regroup, and choose better ground for the next fight.

None of that matters. Even if Loghain is telling the truth about that, Daylen wouldn't leave him alive. All it would do is postpone this civil war for a year or two, and it won't be any easier for the delay. If Loghain is a Grey Warden when the fighting resumes, the Wardens could very well be drawn in on one side or the other, and there's no telling who the Wardens might pull in with them. Daylen won't risk it, not even if Loghain foreswears all claim to the throne, right here in front of the Landsmeet. After everything else Loghain has done, why should Daylen believe a word he says?

And all his other sins aside, a man who would sell his own people into slavery isn't anyone Daylen wants to call brother.

Over Loghain's kneeling form, Daylen meets Anora's eyes. Her face is cold and expressionless, so devoid of emotion it makes Daylen want to look away, but he holds her gaze and ignores everything else around them. After a moment, her chin tips up very slightly. Not permission or agreement, but acknowledgement of everything they both know to be true.

For her sake, Daylen keeps his satisfaction hidden as Loghain's body tumbles to the floor. He can gloat later, in private and not in front of a woman who just watched her father's execution.

###

If he'd hoped to see less of Eamon once the Landsmeet is done, Daylen is soon disabused of that notion. He isn't even allowed time to change out of his robes before he's once again trapped in Eamon's study, and it's nearly midnight by the time he staggers back to his room.

Alistair is slouched in one of the chairs, and by the bleary-eyed look he gives Daylen, he must have been asleep until he was woken by the sound of the door opening. He gets to his feet quickly, though, and takes three strides across the room to meet Daylen halfway between the door and the bed for a hug so tight Daylen can't breathe.

"Thank you," he whispers into Daylen's hair. "You don't know...I wanted... _thank you_." He seems to realize then how tightly he's holding Daylen, and he relaxes his grip abruptly. "Sorry."

Daylen puts his own arms around Alistair and pulls him back in close, if more gently. He's too tired for words, but by the way Alistair leans into him, maybe he doesn't need them.

They get ready for bed together, Alistair helping more than Daylen needs him to. A month ago, he would have chafed at it no matter how tired he was, but now he just lets Alistair help him. Alistair's hands skim over his arms and sides as they work the robes off, his touch warm even through Daylen's shirt, and Daylen wants him so much. Physical need is dulled by exhaustion, but the need for touch is painfully sharp.

Alistair moves away long enough to fold up the robes and tuck them away. When he steps in close again, he's more hesitant, his eyes searching Daylen's face as his hands find the hem of Daylen's shirt, holding without pulling. Easy to tell what he's asking, and even easier to answer.

Daylen raises his arms over his head, and Alistair only hesitates a moment longer before taking the invitation. His hands stroke up Daylen's ribs and arms, taking the shirt with them, touching far more than necessary and not nearly enough. He tries to fold the shirt, too, until Daylen takes it out of his hands and tosses it in the general direction of a chair, already reaching for the hem of Alistair's shirt before his has landed.

At Daylen's questioning look, Alistair smiles and imitates Daylen's earlier wordless answer, raising his arms over his head so Daylen can pull his shirt off. Daylen isn't so tired he doesn't take advantage of the opportunity, spreading his fingers wide to touch as much of Alistair as he can, even when it interferes with the ostensible goal of removing the shirt. He's wanted this too much for too long, all those months with Alistair always close but never in reach. They've walked together, eaten together, even bathed together and slept within feet of each other, but Daylen never dared forget there was a line between them he couldn't cross. He's seen Alistair naked, but he wasn't allowed to look. He's touched Alistair to heal him, to comfort him, to thank him for a hundred large and small kindnesses, but he wasn't allowed to want it, and he wasn't allowed to look at Alistair's face and hope--expect--to see him want it, too.

"All right," Alistair says, some indeterminate amount of time after his shirt has hit the floor. He catches one of Daylen's hands and brings it to his face, kissing the center and then the heel of the palm before pressing it to his cheek. "You need to sleep."

It might feel like a rejection, except his eyes are dark and his breathing unsteady, and he says the words in the same tone he uses when he's reminding Daylen to eat.

"So do you," Daylen says, smiling.

"Maker, yes." Alistair closes his eyes and rubs his cheek against Daylen's palm, looking as tired as Daylen feels. "When this is over, I'm going to sleep for a week."

"I can't give you that right now," Daylen says, "but will you accept a few hours for tonight?"

"Good enough."

His hand is warm against Daylen's bare chest, pushing him gently backward, and Daylen moves with the pressure until he's seated on the side of the bed. Alistair goes stiffly to one knee and sets to work on Daylen's boots, quicker and more efficient than the last time, while Daylen tries not to think too much about it.

"Remember what you asked me before?" Alistair asks when he's almost done with the second boot.

"I'm too tired to remember my own name right now," Daylen says. "What did I ask you?"

"You asked me what part of helping you take off your boots was the part I liked." He smiles up at Daylen, and there's a sly edge to it that Daylen finds intriguing.

"That, I remember."

"Yeah, well, I figured it out," Alistair says, "and it definitely has nothing to do with the boots."

Daylen laughs and brushes the backs of his knuckles over Alistair's cheek. "I'll keep that in mind for later."

"But not tonight." It's not a question, and Daylen once again hears echoes of Alistair reminding him to eat.

"Not tonight." If for no other reason than because Daylen wants to be awake enough to give due appreciation to the sight of Alistair on his knees.

They settle into bed together, Alistair's back against Daylen's chest and Daylen's arms tight around him. It's too warm tonight to be so close, but the hunger for touch is back with a vengeance, itching under Daylen's skin as soon as he thinks about putting any distance between them. He'd rather spend the effort to focus his concentration and start a breeze circling the room. If the breeze is a little colder than it needs to be, making it impossible for either of them to get too warm even with the heat Alistair puts off, well...they have blankets.

He wakes the next morning in the same position, with sunlight pouring in through the window and Alistair toying idly with his hand, the one that was pressed firmly to Alistair's chest when they fell asleep last night. It's relaxed now, and Alistair's hand is resting on top of it, his thumb massaging each finger individually.

Daylen hums appreciation and kisses the back of Alistair's neck, nuzzling the hair at the base of his skull. "Been awake long?"

"A little while," Alistair says, his tone implying a shrug.

"You could have gotten up." Despite the words, Daylen presses closer, tightening his arm around Alistair's chest without tensing the hand Alistair holds.

"I could have," Alistair agrees. His touch turns lighter, becoming a caress, and Daylen hums again, in approval this time. "I didn't feel like it."

Daylen twists a leg through Alistair's, pulling Alistair's ass back against his hips--and his half-hard cock. "What did you feel like?"

"This." Alistair trails his fingers over the back of Daylen's hand to the wrist. "Or maybe this." He raises their joined hands and kisses the pads of Daylen's fingers one by one. Each kiss is close-mouthed but unhurried as he works his way from first finger to last, then does it again in reverse order so that some small eternity later, Daylen's index finger is resting against his lips.

"Anything else?" Daylen doesn't try to hide how breathless he is, and he can feel Alistair smile under his finger.

"There's always this," he says, then sucks Daylen's finger into his mouth.

Caught off guard, Daylen jerks, and Alistair goes very still. Waiting, though, not withdrawing.

Daylen kisses the back of his neck again, scraping the skin gently with his teeth, tracing Alistair's hairline with the tip of his tongue. At the small, needy sound Alistair makes, Daylen bites down gently. The next bite is harder, and it ends on a groan as Alistair sucks two of Daylen's fingers into his mouth. Alistair's teeth barely touch the skin as he licks and sucks, his tongue wrapped around them and occasionally pressing up to rub against the underside.

"I like your ideas," Daylen says into his hair, voice a little strangled. "Tell me more."

Alistair catches him off guard again by pulling Daylen's fingers from his mouth and guiding his hand downward. "What about this?"

There's hesitation in his voice now, a question Daylen can't answer because he can't fucking breathe, he can't do anything except wait to see if Alistair is going where Daylen thinks he's going, and oh, fucking Andraste, he _is_. He places Daylen's hand carefully against the front of his trousers, directly over his cock.

"Sweet Maker," Daylen whispers. Alistair is hard under his hand: not half hard, not almost hard, but so completely hard it has to hurt if he's been like this a while.

Daylen runs his palm up the shaft, and Alistair rocks into the touch with a gasp, begging for more so blatantly Daylen has to give it to him. He traces the outline of Alistair's cock through the cloth, wanting to tease for just a moment-

Which is of course when someone knocks on the door.

"Fuck all of them," he mutters against Alistair's neck. "Whatever it is, they can do it without me."

Alistair laughs silently and puts his hand over top of Daylen's, encouraging him to return to what he was doing. It's a request Daylen is happy to oblige, especially with the way Alistair moves against him.

Unfortunately, whoever's at the door doesn't go away. They knock at polite intervals, a sharp triple-tap each time, until finally Daylen swears and climbs out of bed to see who it is.

It's Riordan, and by the time he's said his piece and gone away again, neither Daylen nor Alistair is in the mood to return to bed.

As Riordan lets himself out, Daylen stands by the window with his back to the door, unable to look at the man. He stares out at the garden instead, his teeth clenched so hard his whole face hurts, and contemplates setting all of it on fire. He needs no deep self-reflection to know what fear the anger is hiding this time, because no matter what he tries, there isn't enough rage to cover the terror Riordan left him with.

One of them will have to die.

Maybe it will be Riordan, but Daylen is capable of calculating odds this simple, and there's a better than even chance that it won't be. Three people who can kill the archdemon, and only one of those three deaths leads to something other than a personal tragedy. There was always the possibility that Daylen or Alistair might die while trying to end the Blight, but knowing it's possible isn't the same as having the reality--the inevitability--laid out so starkly.

One of them will have to die.

If it means saving Alistair, Daylen will feed Riordan to the archdemon without a moment's hesitation, and he'll throw himself in after if that's what's necessary. He just doesn't want it to be necessary. He wants to save Ferelden, and he wants to survive the Blight, and he wants to do both of those things with Alistair. He doesn't want to die, and while he'll survive Alistair's death if he has to, he doesn't want to simply endure. He's had glimpses of what it might be like to live without fear of templars or darkspawn; he wants a life with more than glimpses, and he wants to share that life with Alistair.

But one of them will have to die, and given the Maker's sense of humor, it won't be Riordan.

The scuff of a foot on the floor gives him enough warning that he doesn't jump when Alistair steps up beside him and puts an arm around his waist. He wishes Alistair hadn't been so considerate, because being startled would have given him an excuse to pull away. Now he has to either suffer the nearly physical pain of having anyone so close, or inflict an equivalent pain on Alistair by pulling away. One of them will hurt, no matter what he does.

Just like one of them will die when the archdemon arrives.

Once, years ago, a careless templar choked Daylen all the way to unconsciousness. He'd already known by then how it felt to have his air cut off, to have his world grow progressively smaller until the only things that existed were his burning lungs and the hand around his throat. Within the warped reality of Kinloch Hold, it had been a relief in its own way. If the need for air overwhelmed everything, then at least he didn't have to think about what else was happening.

Suffocation could be a threat or a punishment, but either way, Daylen had faced it before that day and that templar. As a threat, it was meant to buy his compliance without requiring a templar to exert themselves to force his surrender. As a punishment, it was payment for the effort required to subdue him. A bargain, in which Daylen's only choice was whether he wanted to buy more pain than whatever they had already intended to give him, in return for whatever meager satisfaction he could get from making them work for it.

That time, though...it hadn't been a threat or a punishment. It had simply been thoughtless, a young templar too excited and too inexperienced to realize he'd kept his arm around Daylen's throat too long. There was no bargain, and nothing Daylen could do except struggle fruitlessly and watch starbursts of light consume everything.

Staring out at Eamon's garden, Daylen feels now the way he did then. He can't breathe, and he has no way to bargain with anyone to change that. There's no pain he can suffer, no humiliation he can subject himself to that will allow both him and Alistair to survive the archdemon. All he can do is wait and see how cruel the Maker intends to be.

The need to move is crushing him, too perfectly balanced against the need to not hurt Alistair. How did other people do this? How does he find a place where he can do what he promised--give Alistair what he needs--without self-immolating from stifled rage? At Kinloch Hold, Daylen did his best to not need anything or anyone, and to not let anyone need anything from him. How does he choose between what he needs and what Alistair needs?

"We should go down to the kennels," Alistair says abruptly. His voice is tight, the way it is when he's badly injured, and his whole body is shaking. "See how Barkspawn is doing."

Daylen would kiss him if the thought of touching anyone wasn't making him queasy right now. Barkspawn. Yes. "She's probably bored." His voice sounds no more normal than Alistair's, but neither of them acknowledges it. "If she hasn't been too busy trying to convince the kennelmaster that she's starving."

"She could use some exercise, then," Alistair says, his tone bright and false. "And I haven't thrown any sticks in so long, my aim is probably off. Very important when fighting darkspawn, being able to throw a stick accurately."

"Very important," Daylen agrees. He tries on a smile, then abandons the effort when he can't make it feel even close to right. "You should practice."

They finish dressing and walk to the kennels in silence, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. Daylen knows he should bridge that gap, at least take Alistair's hand or touch his arm, but he can't bring himself to do it. The struggle in his head is so balanced it's made him passive; he couldn't pull away when Alistair touched him, and he can't reach out now. It's one more thing outside his control, and it doesn't do anything for his mood.

Barkspawn, on the other hand, does. She greets both of them so enthusiastically she almost knocks Daylen over, and when Alistair finds a stick of the right size, she's so excited she runs in circles until he throws it. Watching her, Daylen feels a real smile tug at his lips for a moment, before everything crashes back down on him.

Out here in the garden, there's room to walk, and Daylen does. He keeps Alistair in sight, and makes sure Alistair can always see him, but otherwise, he just walks and tries to settle his thoughts. Simply being in motion helps calm the buzzing under his skin, even if his thoughts refuse to fall into line, and by the time he's made a broad loop of this section of the garden, he can force himself to end the loop at Alistair's side.

The smile Alistair gives him is less tense and more authentic than any of the ones he tried earlier, and Daylen manages to return it. "Have you tired her out yet?" he asks, squinting in the direction that the stick and Barkspawn last went.

"Ha," Alistair mutters. "Not likely."

As if to underscore that, Barkspawn comes around a rosebush and runs back to them, stick held proudly in her mouth. When she drops it into Alistair's waiting hand, she's barely panting, and her whole body wriggles as she waits for him to throw it again.

He obliges, sending it far out over the bushes around them. The three of them have drifted into the estate's rose garden, a web of paths and rosebushes designed more for sedate strolls than throwing sticks for a dog. There's no straight line between Alistair and wherever the stick landed, leaving Barkspawn to hunt it down among the twisting paths.

Since she tears off to begin her search with every sign of enthusiasm, Daylen guesses she doesn't mind.

"My arm isn't ready to give up yet," Alistair says with a decent attempt at a casual tone. "If you want to walk around some more."

The words hurt the way few things in Daylen's life have, because Alistair means them. He's paid enough attention to understand that Daylen needs to move, and needs to be away from people, and he managed to find what Daylen couldn't: a middle ground between Daylen's need for distance and his own need to have Daylen close.

And in a week, two at most, one of them will die.

Daylen steps in close and kisses Alistair's cheek, cupping his face with a hand that absolutely is not shaking. "I won't be far." His casual tone is much less convincing than Alistair's.

Barkspawn reappears, once again triumphant, and Daylen steps back so she can give the stick to Alistair. As Alistair takes it, he gives Daylen a sideways smile and says, "We'll be here."

Daylen touches the back of his neck and the top of Barkspawn's head, a quick brush of his fingers. "I know."

###

It's nearly noon by the time Daylen has walked himself into at least a semblance of calm. The garden's paths cross and re-cross each other, allowing him to make as long or as short a loop as he wants, but he makes sure every loop begins and ends beside Alistair. Each time, it's easier to touch him, and each time, Daylen stays a little longer, watching Barkspawn hunt down sticks without disturbing a single bush. The fall blooms are opening, filling the air with their scent, and Daylen suspects he may hate the smell of roses for the rest of his life.

Which might not be very long at all.

He tries not to think about that, because what else can he do? Despite what Alistair thinks, there are things Daylen can't do, and while he intends to talk to Morrigan and Wynne, he doesn't hold out much hope. If centuries of Grey Wardens haven't found an alternative, he's not so arrogant as to think he'll be able to track one down before the archdemon arrives.

Resentment of Duncan is one of many things Daylen folds up and puts away as he walks. Because he _is_ arrogant enough to think that he might have had a chance to find a better solution if he'd known all along. He's been to so many lost and ancient places in the last year, maybe the answer was there, if he'd known to look. Maybe the answer is still there, if he had time to look again. For Alistair, Daylen would go back into the Deep Roads without hesitation, but that option is closed to him now and will be until it's too late.

When he's finally succeeded--mostly--in packing the mess in his head into a mental box, locking it securely, and shoving it into a dark corner, he stops at Alistair's side and puts an arm around his shoulders. Barkspawn sprawls at their feet, panting and looking very pleased with herself, and Alistair looks as calm as Daylen feels: on edge, but miles calmer than when they started. Now the arm Alistair puts around him is comforting, a reminder that whatever happens in the future, they're together today.

"We should get something to eat," Daylen says, once Barkspawn is no longer panting like a bellows. He tightens the arm around Alistair's shoulders and adds, "See? I do remember."

"Sometimes." Alistair's tone is both doubtful and judgmental, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Sometimes," Daylen agrees. "And I have you to remind me the rest of the time."

He leans in to kiss Alistair's cheek, but Alistair turns toward him at the same time, so the kiss lands half on his mouth. Before Daylen can decide whether that was accidental or intentional, Alistair turns the last little bit, bringing them squarely face to face. His lips part, and then his mouth is on Daylen's, hot and desperate, and Daylen kisses him back, just as fiercely. He wants very much to not think right now, and the taste of Alistair's mouth is an excellent shield against any thought except trying to remember if there's a convenient wall he could back Alistair up against.

Barkspawn gives a soft yip, the way she does when she's scouting and wants Daylen's attention. He pulls away from Alistair to look at her, then follows the line of her gaze toward the corner of the manor, a hundred or so feet away. Daylen can't hear anything, but Barkspawn's ears are better than his, and this isn't exactly a private spot.

Daylen lets Alistair go, and Alistair sighs. "I hate your dog."

"Liar," Daylen says, unoffended. "And would you rather she hadn't warned us?"

"Never mind, I love my dog," Alistair says.

"Your dog?" Daylen weighs the words, trying to decide how he feels about them. Barkspawn has always been his, right from the start, and his first reaction is to defend that claim. "She's your dog if she's done something good, but mine if she's done something bad?"

"Of course," Alistair says, and Daylen decides he's all right with that after all. Alistair is relaxed and happy, looking up at him with slightly parted lips that Daylen wants to kiss again and to the Void with anyone who might interrupt them.

"Food," he says instead, twining his fingers through Alistair's as he turns them in the right direction.

Barkspawn bounces eagerly to her feet, and Daylen tries to look stern. "Not for you, you've already been fed."

She hangs her head and looks up at him with her saddest, most pathetic expression. If she could suck in her cheeks and stomach to look thinner, she probably would.

"No," he says firmly. "And don't try to convince me they don't feed you, because I know better."

She sulks the whole way to the kennels, but when he kneels to tell her goodbye, she forgets that she's mad at him and tries to lick his face.

"Fool dog," he says affectionately, blocking her attempts by hugging her.

She licks what she can reach, which is his ear and the side of his head, and he's laughing outright by the time he stands up. Alistair, less discriminating, lets her lick his whole face while Daylen tries to smooth out his hair. It's just the wrong length now, long enough to be more than stubble but too short to be dragged back down by its own weight, and Barkspawn did an excellent job of licking it into a spiky mess. Daylen isn't overly concerned with his personal appearance today, but he'd prefer not to arrive in the dining hall with half of his hair sticking straight out from his head.

Alistair gets back to his feet, and Barkspawn's tail stops wagging. The entreating look she gives them this time is real, and Daylen scratches her behind the ears with his free hand, feeling guilty. "I'll come back tomorrow."

The fate of Thedas is more important than the happiness of a dog, but there has to be some way he can find a little time for her.

Hands linked loosely together, Daylen and Alistair walk to the dining hall in a more comfortable silence than the one that surrounded them on their walk to the garden. Even the need to gather the others and pass on the gist of Riordan's information doesn't bring back the near-crippling panic of this morning, though Daylen can't stop a little anger from leaking through. Maybe that's even for the best; the others might think him possessed if he was completely calm, and at least he doesn't snap at anyone.

Afterward, Alistair goes off to drill with Sten while Daylen takes Morrigan and Wynne to the manor's pitiful excuse for a library, more to have quiet and privacy than because he expects to find any useful books. He tried to give away as few Grey Warden secrets as possible to the whole group, but he tells Morrigan and Wynne everything he knows. They have a week to find something, and he won't make it any more of a challenge than it already is. If the Grey Wardens had been less secretive in the first place, he might already have a solution.

Wynne shakes her head sadly when he's done, but Morrigan looks thoughtful.

"I may know of something," she says. Wynne looks at her sharply and gets an irritated scowl in return. "'Tis not blood magic, if that's what concerns you."

Depending on the amount of blood required--and who it would have to come from--Daylen isn't opposed to anything that increases the chances both he and Alistair survive the archdemon. He doesn't say so in front of Wynne, but he lets her lead the way from the library so he can hang back and make sure Morrigan understands how few scruples he has for this.

"I won't kill anyone or let anyone be killed," he tells her, holding her gaze to make it clear he's serious, "and I won't use magic on anyone who doesn't willingly agree, knowing all the details. Otherwise? I don't care what it takes, so long as it kills the archdemon without requiring a Grey Warden's death." She opens her mouth, and he talks over her to answer the question he knows she's about to ask. "Yes, I know we could still die in the fight. All I want are better odds than I have right now."

She gives him a faint smile. "Then I believe I have the perfect solution, but allow me a day to be sure."

"Let me know before you do anything," he says, caught suddenly by the realization that a sufficiently determined person could find a way to abide by the letter but not the spirit of his requirements. He trusts Morrigan in many ways, but he wants a last chance to put a stop to things, if necessary.

"Fear not," she says. "I could hardly do anything without your knowledge, since I require your assistance."

"What kind of assistance?" he asks, halfway between curious and wary.

"Nothing painful, I assure you, but I would prefer a chance to look over a few things before I say more."

Daylen wants to press her for every detail, verified or not, but he forces himself to nod. "Come get me as soon as you know one way or the other. If I'm not in my room, I'm probably at the kennels or in Eamon's study."

They part ways, Morrigan to check whatever mysterious sources she needs and Daylen to find Eamon. Personal animosity aside, Eamon will have something to keep him busy, and Daylen needs that right now.

###

Eamon looks more than a little nonplussed when Daylen appears in his study, but he collects himself quickly and proves Daylen right: he has plenty for both of them to do.

They pass the afternoon reading reports and updating the map, interspersed with the occasional debate over a cryptically succinct phrase or rain-smeared page, all of it surprisingly amicable. At least, surprising to Daylen; if Eamon is surprised by anything other than Daylen willingly seeking him out, it doesn't show.

Despite Daylen's best efforts, it's not yet time for supper when Eamon calls their work finished for the day. With the darkspawn so close, Daylen expected more meetings than ever, but either they realized in his absence that they don't need him, or Wynne put the fear of the Maker into Eamon if he allowed Daylen to stretch himself too thin again. Which would be irritating, if Daylen didn't know exactly how little room he has to complain on that particular issue. He's still terrible at giving up, but he's learning not to start fights he knows he can't win.

Sometimes.

Once again at loose ends, Daylen goes in search of Alistair, but finding him proves impossible. Plenty of people saw him "just a little while ago" without having any idea where he is now, and eventually, Daylen heads back to his room. It's early in the day for Alistair to be there, but Daylen can find something to do while he waits in what is, after all, the first place Alistair is likely to look for him.

It turns out to also be the first place Daylen should have looked: despite the early hour, Alistair is there. He's kneeling over something on the rug by the fire, but Daylen doesn't get a good look at it, because Alistair bolts to his feet as soon as the door opens.

"You're early!" Alistair accuses.

Daylen stares at him. "Sorry?" He's not sure if he's apologizing for being early or just expressing his confusion. Alistair doesn't look startled, he looks guilty, and Daylen can't think of any reason for it. His mind flicks quickly through the obvious answers, but they're all so patently ridiculous he doesn't bother to seriously consider any of them. The very idea of Alistair deliberately doing anything to hurt him is laughable.

"How can I be early if I didn't know I was supposed to be here at all?" he finally asks.

Alistair makes a face, guilt beginning to fade into simple embarrassment. "You were in Eamon's office," he says. "I figured you'd be there at least until supper."

"So did I," Daylen admits. "But here I am." He looks around the room, trying to spot anything out of place, but nothing catches his eye. "What am I early for?"

"Ah, well, I, um, I thought, maybe we could...I mean, it seemed like a good idea, but if you don't-" Alistair cuts himself off as Daylen gives him a slow, confused blink. "Ugh, sorry."

When he doesn't say anything else, Daylen walks toward him, trying to get a better look at whatever it is at his feet that he was working on before Daylen interrupted. Alistair takes a half step to block his view, then shakes his head at himself and steps completely out of the way.

Being able to see it doesn't help. It's just a basket of food, which makes it possibly the least surprising thing it could be.

"I thought we could maybe eat supper here," Alistair says, so tentatively Daylen turns to stare at him again. "Just us."

An odd idea occurs to Daylen, and he crouches down to look in the basket more carefully. Yes, it's food, but it's not the kind of food Alistair normally brings him. That's always hearty fare, as if Alistair is trying to compensate for the fact that Daylen might not eat as much as Alistair thinks he should: thick stews, dense bread, cheese and stewed fruit when Alistair can get them.

The contents of this basket bear only a superficial resemblance to the food found at a campfire or roadside inn. There's bread, yes, but it looks to be made of fine white flour, with not an oat or a ground bean in sight. Stewed fruit has been replaced by candied violets, and there are at least a dozen small tarts of various kinds, both sweet and savory. The expected cheese is there, of course, but this is something soft that would never keep for more than a day or two and nothing at all like the hard cheeses they ate while they were on the road. Off to the side, well clear of potential accidents, a pair of fine crystal goblets sit beside a bottle of wine.

There's another cup with them, a battered tin mug that must have come from Alistair's travelling pack. It looks wildly out of place, but that isn't what holds Daylen's attention. What grabs him is the rose in the mug, its stem almost too long and the weight of the blossom in danger of tipping the flower out of its water.

Daylen lifts the rose from the mug, mindful of the thorns waiting to jab the unwary, and looks at Alistair, who's blushing furiously.

"I, um, thought it was pretty," Alistair says. "And, well, you're pretty, too, and...and...and fucking Maker, why am I so bad at this?"

The last word is muffled by the hand now covering his face, and his shoulders are hunched in embarrassment that borders on mortification. Daylen drops the rose back into its mug and lurches to his feet, taking one long stride to Alistair and pulling his hand away from his face.

"No," Daylen says sharply, and he means it as a rejection of the idea that Alistair has a reason to be embarrassed, but by the way Alistair flinches, Daylen knows that's not how it sounded.

"Sorry-" Alistair begins.

"Don't," Daylen says over him, needing to cut off that misplaced apology but too astonished for anything resembling eloquence. "Don't hide, please don't hide, this is...I don't...no one's ever done anything like this for me, and it's..." He's babbling as much as Alistair ever did, but he can't seem to stop. "...you surprised me, that's all, you don't need to apologize, or be embarrassed, not for this, not for something so...so..." Words escape him, all except one, and he huffs out a laugh. "...so amazing."

Somewhere in that incoherent flood, he must have gotten something right, because Alistair has begun to smile hopefully at him. "Amazing?"

"Amazing." Daylen is certainly amazed. And appalled, though that part is at himself: his hands are trembling, even though it makes no sense for a rose to shake him more thoroughly than a demon and an army of undead. "Please don't apologize for this. For any of it."

"It's not much," Alistair starts.

The hand he'd been using to hide his face is still in Daylen's grip, so Daylen moves it back up to cover Alistair's mouth. Alistair laughs, eyes going bright, and Daylen wants him in more ways than it should be possible to want anyone.

 _"You don't have to seduce me, you know."_ Alistair already has almost everything Daylen can give, and a single yes will get him the rest.

Looking down into Alistair's laughing, hopeful face, Daylen can't help but laugh, too. "There are a lot of pretty flowers," he teases Alistair. "I don't know how I feel about the fact that you're comparing me to one with some really vicious thorns."

"Nothing wrong with thorns," Alistair says, the words slightly muffled. Above his hand, his eyes are still laughing.

"Tell that to anyone who's ever had to manage a rose garden." Grinning, Daylen drops their joined hands away from Alistair's mouth but doesn't let go. "You can lose a finger if you're not careful."

"Fortunately, I don't want a whole garden." Alistair's smile tilts. "I only want the one."

"One with thorns," Daylen says, aware they're no longer talking about flowers.

Alistair frees his hand and takes half a step back, enough to raise both hands to display the unbroken skin. "If you do it right, you don't have to worry about the thorns."

Daylen takes a loose fistful of Alistair's shirt and pulls him in close again, so Daylen can whisper against his mouth, "I think most people would disagree."

Without waiting for a reply, he kisses Alistair soft and slow, cupping the back of his neck with one hand. Alistair leans into him, arms sliding around him as easily as if they'd done this a thousand times. Daylen tries not to think about how many times they'll actually have before the archdemon arrives. The number doesn't matter; the answer will always be, "Not enough."

The reminder steals some--though not all--of his joy in the moment, and he breaks the kiss with a sigh. "Sorry I'm early," he murmurs, just to see Alistair smile. "I'll try to be late next time."

"See that you do," Alistair says, mock severe. "As punishment, you'll have to help me finish setting up."

"Truly, a terrible punishment," Daylen says, making no attempt at sincerity as he kneels beside the basket again. "Whatever will I do?"

"Eat something, hopefully."

Daylen eyes the amount of food already laid out and the basket that isn't empty yet. "If you think I can eat half of this, you're going to be disappointed."

"Nah," Alistair says. "I wasn't sure what you'd like best, so I got a little bit of a lot of different things."

Daylen isn't entirely sure himself what he likes. On the road, they ate what was available, and at Kinloch Hold, he ate what was put in front of him without much thought for any of it. While the Circle fed them well enough, it was still the sort of food Daylen has since eaten at inns frequented by middling prosperous merchants. Nothing at all like the meals served at an arl's table.

As they unpack the basket, Daylen is a little impressed at what Alistair was able to talk out of Eamon's cook. The kitchens were one of the places Daylen had looked for him earlier, and there were no tarts anywhere in sight. Which means someone made them special for Alistair, or they were made special for someone else and Alistair was allowed to take more than a dozen. It wouldn't have been easy to charm any of the cooks into such a favor, and that doesn't even consider the cost of the candied violets or the white flour for the bread.

It makes for an impressive spread when it's all laid out. Looking it over, Daylen is amused to note that everything can be eaten with their fingers, and he doubts that was an accident. Which is more deliberately seductive than he would have thought Alistair had the experience to consider.

 _"Did Zevran help you with this?"_ Daylen almost asks, but he catches himself in time. It's impossible for the words to sound anything other than mocking or incredulous, even though Daylen is merely curious. In many ways, the gesture is more touching if Zevran helped: Alistair would have had to seek him out for it, and the image of Alistair blushing and stumbling his way through the request makes Daylen want to smile.

Then he looks over at Alistair where he's pouring the wine with a small frown of concentration, and Daylen's smile escapes. Alistair glances up as it does, and his answering smile is brilliant.

"What about this?" Daylen asks, to distract himself from the urge to kiss Alistair again. He holds up the rose in its tin mug, careful not to spill the water or let the flower overbalance. "Where does it go?"

Alistair's smile turns sheepish. "I forgot to get anything fancier to put it in, so...uh...wherever it won't fall over?"

After a moment's thought, Daylen sets the mug down where he can prop it and the flower against the side of the basket for stability. He'll have to be careful not to knock it over if he moves the basket, but it should do for now.

"I'll find something better tomorrow," Alistair promises.

Daylen looks at the rose a moment longer, than smiles at Alistair. "Don't bother. I like it the way it is."


	20. Lines in the Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big trigger warning in this one for a flashback to something that happened when Daylen was twelve years old. It's not explicit, but it is...well...*waves vaguely at the tags*...if you haven't looked at the tags in a while, you might want to refresh your memory.
> 
> And with that said, I hereby dedicate this chapter to the person who told me they've mentally re-titled this story "The Truth Hurts." :P

In the end, Daylen doesn't eat all of "his" half of the food, but he comes closer than he would have thought, and not just because it makes Alistair happy to see him eat. For all they've been guests at Eamon's table for weeks, none of those meals gave Daylen a chance to simply enjoy the food. He's been exhausted, or angry, or in the middle of some important discussion at every meal, focused on anything except the annoying demands of his body.

Those demands aren't annoying him now. He's had so few quiet moments in the last year, and there's more pleasure than he would have guessed in good food eaten at leisure. Not as much as there is in having Alistair close enough to touch--and close enough to touch him--whenever either of them wants, but still a pleasure. The conversation never delves into anything deeper than who gets to have the last tart, and Daylen relaxes into it deliberately. Tomorrow is for tomorrow.

The fire is burning low by the time they've eaten everything except the sweets. Alistair gets up to add another log to the fire, and Daylen takes the opportunity to stretch out on his side, propped up on one elbow. There's enough space left for Alistair to lie down in front of him, and Daylen has every intention of encouraging him to take it.

But when he indicates the spot in front of him, Alistair shakes his head with a smile. "Hold on, I need to get something."

Curious, Daylen watches him fetch something from the table, something small enough Daylen hadn't noticed it before now. He squints, but he can't make out what it is until Alistair sits back down and offers it to him.

A book isn't what Daylen was expecting, and he gives Alistair a questioning look that sharpens as he takes in Alistair's red face.

"You, um, you said you wanted to borrow it," Alistair says.

More puzzled than ever, Daylen looks back down at the book, trying to remember when he might have asked to borrow a book from Alistair. The cover is devoid of any marking except a few scuffs, so Daylen flips it open and leafs through the pages for a hint. The moment he stops and actually reads one, he realizes what mistaken assumption he's been making. Because his memory isn't failing him; he never said anything about borrowing a book from _Alistair_.

He also hadn't been entirely serious when he suggested borrowing books of lewd poetry from Zevran, but he has no intention of saying so. Alistair's face has gotten redder, and now he looks anxious as well as embarrassed. Daylen considers several possible reactions, including pushing Alistair onto his back to kiss him until he's too hard to be embarrassed, but he settles for asking casually, "Any particular one you wanted me to read?"

"N-no. Just...whatever you think is good."

What Daylen thinks would be good right now doesn't involve poetry, no matter how salacious, but he gestures again at the space in front of him rather than say so. Obligingly, Alistair lies down in a mirror of Daylen's position, propped up on one elbow so they're facing each other across the book.

Daylen skims quickly through the first few poems until he finds one that probably won't set Alistair's hair on fire. As soon as he begins to read aloud, Alistair swallows audibly, and Daylen again considers tossing the book out of the way so he can press himself against Alistair. The desire to touch is strong enough it roughens Daylen's voice, which is so unintentionally appropriate to the subject of the poem that it makes him smile.

When he reaches the end of that poem, he glances up at Alistair to measure his reaction. He's still red-faced with embarrassment, and maybe a little nervous, but anxiety has been replaced with anticipation.

"Were you just going to read the one?" Alistair asks.

Amused, Daylen returns to the book. The next poem is enough to raise even Daylen's eyebrows, so he skips past it in search of something milder. He wants Alistair to be desperate and eager, not dead of embarrassment.

He finds two good ones in a row and reads both aloud, but the poem after them is worse than the one he skipped before. He starts to pass over it, only to stop when Alistair says, "You don't have to skip any because of me." At Daylen's surprised look, he mumbles, "I, um, read them all earlier."

Fucking Maker. How is Daylen supposed to ignore the bolt of lightning that image sends straight through him?

"Alistair," he says, then stops. He's every bit as desperate as he wanted Alistair to be, but he doesn't want to push them past the point where Alistair is comfortable.

On the other hand, asking Daylen to read aloud from this particular book isn't the act of someone who planned to end the evening with a quick kiss on the cheek and a friendly goodbye.

"Alistair," he says again. "Do you really want me to keep reading?"

"Um." Alistair licks his lips nervously. "What do you want?"

"Maker," Daylen mutters. He sets the book between them on the rug so he can cup Alistair's cheek and brush a thumb over his still-damp lips. "I think we both know what I want. What I don't know is what you want."

Alistair's mouth moves as he rehearses something in silence, his lips brushing Daylen's thumb. "I want you to kiss me."

"And is that where you want it to end, too?" He needs to know before his ability to think gets any more clouded.

"No," Alistair whispers, but he doesn't elaborate.

"Tell me what you want," Daylen coaxes. "Tell me where I should stop."

Alistair's eyes are huge and dark, and his voice shakes a little as he says, "Don't stop."

Without breaking eye contact, Daylen moves the book out from between them so he can slide closer, his knees bumping gently against Alistair's. "Let me know if that changes."

"I will." He looks nervous, but when Daylen kisses him, he leans into it eagerly, lips parting at the first touch of Daylen's tongue.

The knock on the door really shouldn't be a surprise.

Daylen groans in frustration. "If we ignore them, do you think they'll go away?"

As if in answer, whoever it is on the other side of the door knocks again.

"Probably not," Alistair says.

"I don't care who it is," Daylen says as he gets to his feet. "If it's not the fucking archdemon, I'm going to kill them."

"But if it is the archdemon, you won't?" Alistair sounds like he's trying not to laugh.

"If the archdemon is polite enough to knock, it can fucking well wait until-...oh."

By the expression on Morrigan's face, that wasn't the greeting she'd expected, but Daylen needs a moment to pull his mind off the expected path and onto the actual one.

Then everything falls into place, and he blurts out, "Yes or no?" He needs to know that part now, so he can kill either the hope that rises at her presence or the doubts fed by a lifetime of experience.

"Yes." Her smile is smugly satisfied. It's an expression that would normally irritate Daylen, but for that answer, he'll grant she's earned the right to be smug. "And with all your requirements met."

Relief leaves him so light-headed he has to hold on to the door to stay upright. Behind him, Alistair asks a question, voice sharp with concern, but Daylen can't turn the sounds into words. "It's fine," he says over his shoulder, hoping that works as an answer.

Because it is fine. It's more than fine. It's the kind of miracle Daylen has learned not to expect from life, and yet, here it is.

"May I come in?" Morrigan asks. "Unless you wish to discuss the details in the hallway?"

"I don't know that I care about the details," Daylen says, grinning in relief, "but come in anyway."

He's giddy as he closes the door behind her, and giddy as he gives Alistair a brief explanation of why their private evening has unexpectedly acquired a third participant, and giddy as he gestures Morrigan to one of the chairs in front of the fire. His blood is burning, the remnants of his earlier arousal mixing with the hope now rushing through him, and he sits in the chair opposite Morrigan to keep himself still.

Then she starts to talk, and he's distantly glad to be sitting down as the heat is swept away on a wave of cold horror. Because it turns out he does care about the details. He cares very much, and all he can do is stare numbly at her while everything inside him screams _no!_ Not this. Not now.

Not again.

The shock of it doesn't help him get control of his emotions. At Fort Drakon, he'd been half expecting it every moment until he had his magic back, and at Kinloch Hold, it had been a given, only the specifics a surprise. By the time he left the Circle, even those hadn't been able to shock him anymore.

It's a shock now, and it burns away shadows in his head that he's worked so hard not to examine. Carefully-ignored memories try to rise out of the darkness the way Redcliffe's dead rose from their graves, and much as he did with those walking corpses, Daylen shoves the memories back where they belong. But unlike Redcliffe's dead, he can't seem to kill all of the memories, and every time he knocks one back, another escapes. He's managed to avoid thinking about this for years now, side-stepping the memories when he can and pushing his way through them when he can't, but right now, he's already off-balance, and he can't avoid remembering.

Her name, first: Helisma.

Then her face: wet with tears, eyes terrified and one already beginning to swell shut from the casual backhand that threw her to the floor. Daylen's own vision is blurred by tears of pain and rage, and the world is swinging around him in endless, swooping arcs that make him retch, though there's nothing left in his stomach to bring up. Helisma stares at him, her lips moving in a prayer or a plea for mercy, neither of which will be answered.

The memory expands outward from her, the floor and walls of the storeroom becoming visible as if by a light growing steadily brighter. The light paints the templars larger than they were in life, as large as they had seemed to Daylen at the time. Three of them are laughing at the fourth, who's swearing as he shakes out his burned hand, and Daylen hates them with everything he has.

He doesn't know why he tried to protect Helisma. Maybe there was a reason somewhere in his head before the smite shook everything loose, but if there was, it's lost now. He doesn't know her or her story, only that she's new to Kinloch Hold and more innocent than Daylen had realized it was possible for anyone to be. She's nearly the same age as he is, but her shock at the templars' demands had been genuine. Seeing her face in that moment, it was the first time Daylen had truly believed there were places in the world where things like this didn't happen. The older mages lied all the time; why would he believe them about that?

He'd reacted to her shock without thinking, the same way he would have reacted to the sight of some careless person about to knock a book into the fire. Except rather than save the book, all he's done is throw himself in after it.

"Little shit," one of the templars mutters, the one whose smite knocked Daylen to the ground before the flame spell could do any real damage. "You think you get to tell me no?"

He grabs the front of Daylen's robes with his unburned hand and hauls him up off the ground. All four templars are watching Daylen now, the other three still amused. Behind them, Helisma begins to inch toward the door without taking her eyes off Daylen.

 _Idiot,_ he thinks dizzily. She should be watching the templars, not him. He's not a threat.

He is, however, a distraction, and enough of one for her to make her escape. He doesn't blame her for leaving him here alone; if anything, he's glad to see her slip away. It's pointless in the long run, but at least one of them won't spend tonight with the healers. At least the punishment he's brought down on himself buys her another day or two of innocence. And at least he won't have to watch when the templars break that innocence into pieces.

Later, the healers give him the same half-despairing lecture they've given him a hundred times already. There are degrees of acquiescence, they remind him; if he can't go willingly, then at least go quietly and spare himself a few bruises. Rage and refusal buy him nothing except pain.

As if he doesn't know that. He's the one who needs healing tonight, and he knows exactly what brought him here.

Still, part of their lecture sinks in for once, though perhaps not in the way they intended. He spends the night turning their words over in his head, arguing with himself until the healers let him go at dawn. He's supposed to return to his rooms and rest, but he lies to the healers without a qualm and considers it practice for the much more important lie he's about to tell.

The templars' quarters are almost as familiar to Daylen as the halls where the apprentices live and study, and it isn't difficult to find the right room. One of the templars from last night-- _not_ the one Daylen burned, thankfully--has rank enough for his own room, hardly big enough to hold more than a bed and a chest but _private_. Daylen both envies him that privacy and is grateful for it. At least this particular humiliation won't take place under the mocking eyes of every templar in the barracks.

And the kind of rank that gets a private room can provide other things, as well. It can make the bargain Daylen is about to offer actually mean something.

Daylen knocks quietly, then slips through the door at the distracted "come in!" from inside the room. The templar is seated on the side of the bed, half dressed and clearly surprised by who's here to see him. Surprised enough to glance quickly toward his sword, checking that it's close to hand.

Meekness doesn't come naturally to Daylen, but he does his best. Eyes on the floor, he says quietly, "Please leave Helisma alone."

The templar barks a surprised laugh. "Or what? You'll tell Irving? Maybe Greagoir?"

Daylen suppresses a laugh of his own at the thought and gives a small shake of his head. "No, ser. But..." He tries something he's seen others do, looking up at the templar through his lashes without raising his head. "But it would mean a lot to me, if you did. If you made sure everyone left her alone."

"It would mean a lot to you," the templar says. His tone is mocking, but there's a calculating look on his face. "How much is 'a lot'?"

He's considering it. He's actually considering it.

Daylen feels reckless, powerful and powerless at the same time. All along, he's assumed that if "no" was meaningless, then so was "yes," but he's beginning to see he was wrong.

"I'll do whatever you want," he says.

The templar hums thoughtfully from his seat on the bed. His hands are braced on his knees, and one finger taps a slow rhythm against the inside of his leg as he studies Daylen. Finally, he says, "You have a reputation, you know."

Honestly surprised, Daylen forgets to keep his head down. "I do?"

"You do." The templar looks amused now. "And I'm not much interested in a fight all the time."

"I..." Daylen swallows the rage that tries to bubble up and dips his head back down to hide his face. "If you protect her, I won't fight you."

"Protect _her_ ," the templar repeats. "But not you?"

Hope is an unpleasant addition to the rage and hate already tangled in Daylen's chest. He looks up again, though he remembers this time to do it through his lashes. "Would you protect both of us?"

"Probably not," the templar says. There's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "But on any given day, I'll let you pick which of you it will be."

The hope dies again, and Daylen is glad. Hope is pointless here, and it always has been. "You promise?" It's supposed to sound pleading, but he's no better at pleading than he is at meek, and he can hear the challenge in his own voice.

Fortunately, it only seems to amuse the templar more. "I promise. Assuming you can prove you mean it."

So Daylen does.

And they leave Helisma alone.

And over the next three years, he learns to hate the sight of her face. She's enough younger than he is that they have no lessons together, and they sleep in separate dormitories. Nearly the only time he sees her is when that templar escorts her into whatever room Daylen happens to be in at the time. No need to say anything, or issue any threats. All the templar has to do is raise his eyebrows, and Daylen will follow to do whatever he wants and pretend to be grateful.

In this one instance, Daylen could say no at any time. It wouldn't spare him his own share of whatever the templars chose to do, but it would spare him Helisma's. He doesn't have to accept a double portion of abuse.

It's the first time in his life where all he has to do is say no to end it, but it's not the first time he's done something rather than give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him surrender. He stood between the templars and Helisma the first time because he was too angry to think. He stands between them for three more years because he's too stubborn to give up.

The one tiny consolation in all of it is that at least Helisma can go on believing the world isn't as bad as it really is. He hates her for that innocence even as he protects it, until the morning he finds her in his usual seat in the library. There's a question on his lips, but it dies when she turns around and reveals the sun in glory burned into her forehead.

"What happened?" he finally manages. "Why did they do it?"

"Because I asked them to," she says, her voice distant and emotionless.

"But _why_?"

"I couldn't let you protect me anymore," she says. "Now you don't have to."

Later, he looks at the herbs he's using to make salves and thinks of other things he could do with them. For healing, the dose is crucial; for this, all he would need to do is take as much as he could choke down. The word overkill takes on a decidedly ironic twist for him.

For weeks he's caught between hopeless anguish and his own stubborn refusal to give the templars even the small satisfaction of his death. Eventually, though, he finds ways to bury the memories. It helps that Helisma is sent to the Formari in Dairsmuid. Without the constant reminder of her presence, he can lock away everything he did to protect her, every meaningless act and pointless humiliation. He can forget everything he did that drove her to ask to be made Tranquil.

He can forget the relief he felt when he understood what she'd done.

 _Daylen._ In memory, she says his name, soft and coaxing, but he can't answer her, can't remember how to form words or even open his eyes to see her. Isn't sure he wants to see her. There's too much emotion in her voice for anyone who's been made Tranquil, but the shadow of that scar will be there no matter what, like a glowing after-image from staring too long at the true sun.

 _"Daylen."_ A deeper voice this time. Older, though not old. Still soft, still coaxing. Comforting on some level, even if he can't put a name to it yet.

"Daylen."

He opens his eyes, and for a moment, the past overlays the present as he stares at a half-familiar face and feels a too-familiar power prickling at his skin. _Templar!_ a panicked voice shouts in his head, and he only just manages to turn his instinctive recoil into nothing more than a twitch.

The brief flash of pain on the templar's face tilts the world at a nauseating angle, until Daylen reorients himself and remembers where and when he is.

Alistair is seated in the chair where Morrigan was the last time Daylen looked, and Morrigan herself is nowhere in sight. How long was he gone? Please, Maker, let it not be as long as he suspects, but a glance around the room isn't reassuring. The fire has burned down a bit, leaving the room thick with shadows, and shame washes over Daylen at the implication.

"Daylen," Alistair says again, in the same soft voice as before.

"I'm fine," Daylen says harshly. Alistair needs to stop saying his name like that, because Daylen will fall apart if he doesn't, and there isn't time for that kind of weakness. He needs to get himself under control, and then find Morrigan and give her what she needs for her ritual. The sooner he can get that over with, the sooner he can forget about it and go back to forgetting Helisma.

"You're fine," Alistair says in flat disbelief. "Really."

"I will be," Daylen says. "Just give me a moment."

"A moment." His expression is so incredulous, Daylen is struck by an unexpected, nearly-overwhelming urge to laugh. "You just need 'a moment.'"

"Well, I don't have more than that," Daylen says. "So it's going to have to do."

"No, actually, you have plenty of time." Alistair doesn't look like he wants to laugh at all.

As quick as that, amusement changes to a fury so intense the Veil thins around Daylen, his magic reaching for the Fade without conscious direction. It's a loss of control so shocking the rage disappears as fast as it came, leaving Daylen breathless. He hasn't lost control like that since...well, since right before the second time he was hit with a smite. At least he regains control before he draws enough magic for Alistair to notice.

"I don't have time," Daylen says. "I need to get this over with."

Alistair's hands clench into fists around the hem of his shirt, the muscles and tendons in his forearms standing out visibly even in the poor light. His chair is far enough from the dying fire that he's mostly in shadow, and for the first time, Daylen notices the distance between them. They're well out of arms' reach of each other, and Alistair is pressed against the back of his chair as if a spell is holding him there.

Or as if he's holding himself there by force of will, somewhere he can't forget and try to touch Daylen.

Confusion turns to gratitude turns to guilt turns back to rage, before all of it collapses into a strange, precarious calm. There's a tension in Daylen's chest like he's trying to hold back laughter, but he's not amused. He's not anything. Emotions flash blindingly and then disappear, like a violent thunderstorm viewed at a safe distance. Even his body is still, his hands steady and his heartbeat slow.

"All right," Daylen says quietly. "I'll be back in a bit. It shouldn't take long." He certainly doesn't intend to spend more time on this than he has to, and for all Morrigan's eagerness about the ritual itself, he doesn't think she wants to prolong this part, either. Her room is only two doors down the hallway, and unless she insists for some reason, he won't even need to get undressed. He knows from personal experience how many things can be done without removing his clothes.

Panic slams against the calm shielding him, cramping his gut and stealing his breath, before it vanishes as if it never existed. It leaves him momentarily disoriented. Which is the only reason he hasn't gotten up yet. The last thing he needs is to fall and crack his head. It would upset Alistair and make this whole thing take that much longer.

"Daylen." Alistair's voice isn't soft and coaxing now, and Daylen blinks at him in confusion. Why does he sound like that, angry and anguished and afraid all at once?

"I'm fine," Daylen says. "Just...dizzy for a moment. Stood up to fast." Except he's not standing. "Tried to stand up too fast."

"Stop!" Alistair shouts, then winces. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," Daylen says soothingly. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine!"

Rage flashes again, a lightning strike that obliterates everything in its path. In a cold, quiet voice, Daylen says, "Don't tell me what I am."

"Then don't tell me you're fine when you're not!"

Daylen opens his mouth, and he can feel too many unforgivable words crowding in his throat, but Alistair talks over him. "Andraste's fucking ashes, Daylen, stop! Just... _stop_." Alistair's face is flushed, and he's breathing hard, though he hasn't moved. "Stop saying you're fine. You sat in that chair for I don't even know how long, like someone turned you to fucking stone. You wouldn't answer me, you wouldn't look at me, fuck, I wasn't even sure you were _breathing_ half the time."

"I'm breathing now," Daylen points out, rage doused as if it were a candle rather than the blazing pyre it had felt like a moment ago. He wants to laugh again, a strange lightness that sits uneasily with the panic once again clawing at the inside of his chest.

Then both are gone, leaving only stillness.

With his body finally under control, Daylen gathers himself to stand. The world feels distant, his awareness not quite aligned with reality, but that's fine. Distance is good. Distance will make it easier to forget.

"Stop," Alistair says. Not a shout this time, but it doesn't need to be. There's enough force behind the word to freeze Daylen in place.

He blinks at Alistair in surprise. "I need to finish this."

"No," Alistair says flatly. "You don't."

"I do," Daylen says, just as flatly. "Because I'm not going to let you die, and if this is what it takes, then fine."

Alistair twitches, a flinch he only mostly suppresses, but when he speaks, his voice is level. "You don't need to do it, because I will."

Emotions explode inside Daylen so suddenly he's left dazed, a wash of rage-pain-relief-fear-hate-rage that leaves him unable to move or speak.

Until Alistair gets up, and Daylen jerks forward, wanting to grab him and wanting to be anywhere else. "You c-can't," he says. The sound of his own voice is another jolt, the way it shakes and cracks, and he presses his lips together before anything else escapes to betray him even more.

"I can," Alistair says, each word clipped. "Lots of people do it, I think I can figure it out." His jaw is tight, his smile tighter. "And if I can't, I'm sure Morrigan will be happy to tell me what I'm doing wrong."

_"I don't want this to be your first time."_

_Because you remember yours so fondly?_ a jeering voice demands. _When did you become a romantic about 'first times'?_ The mockery in those two words is thick enough to choke on.

Words slip out before Daylen can catch them. "It was supposed to be special."

_"It was supposed to be me."_

That thought is so horrifyingly selfish Daylen closes his eyes, unable to look at Alistair with those unspoken words in his ears and on his tongue. Self-disgust curdles inside him, rage and hate turning inward.

His eyes snap back open when Alistair says, "If it gives us both a chance to survive, I think that counts as special." He's wearing a wry half-smile, and at the sight of it, Daylen wants to be sick.

 _No no no **no no no NO**_. It's screaming through his head, as if saying no has ever done him any good.

"Daylen," Alistair says, then stops. His throat works soundlessly for a long moment before he says quietly, "I need to do this."

"You don't," Daylen protests. "You don't, because I can do it. I've done it before-" He stops, realizing half a beat too late that Alistair won't find that nearly as comforting as Daylen intended it to be.

Alistair doesn't flinch, but his shoulders go rigid and his hands clench at his sides. When he speaks, his voice is steady, but the strain is clearly audible. "You remember you asked me to tell you what I needed? That you'd get it for me, no matter what?"

"Yes!" Daylen says. "And that's why you need to let me do this."

"No," Alistair says. "I need you to _not_ do this. I need you to let me do it."

If this were anyone else, Daylen would suspect them of trying to manipulate him, but he can't imagine it of Alistair. "I can do it," he whispers.

"I know." Alistair takes a half step toward him, then pulls himself up short and looks away. "It's never been about whether you can. I know you can."

If Daylen were a normal person, he thinks he would be crying right now, but his eyes are dry. He wishes he could cry, because he doesn't know any other way to release the pressure in his chest. Emotion builds like a flood behind a dam, and he doesn't know if he can survive it breaking.

"I need you to let me do this," Alistair says. "I need you to let me take this blow so you don't have to."

"I d-don't want you to." There are already too many emotions boiling in Daylen's chest for him to be embarrassed by the stutter, and by the loss of control it reveals.

"And I don't want _you_ to," Alistair says gently. "But one of us has to, and I won't ever be able to look you in the eye again, if you do it."

Daylen opens his mouth, and he means to protest again that he can, he _can_ do this, but what comes out is a whispered, "I don't want you to hate me for this, later."

That pulls Alistair's gaze back to him, and the look he gives Daylen is piercing. "Will you hate me for it, if you do it?"

"No," Daylen says, but he thinks of Helisma, and the shameful relief he'd felt when he knew he was free of an obligation he'd brought on himself. He looks away. "I don't know."

Alistair blows out a long, slow breath. "Well, I'm pretty sure I won't hate you, so I think I win."

Win. He wins.

This is what victory looks like? Laughter tries to escape, but Daylen chokes it back.

He wants to say something noble and brilliant and--above all--true about how he can do this, how he should be the one to do it. Since he doesn't have any of that, he forces himself to get up and take the two steps necessary to cup Alistair's face. His palms ache as if he shoved them into a forge, and a thousand needles stab all down the front of his body at having anyone so close.

"I'll be back soon," Alistair says. He presses his face against Daylen's hands but doesn't try to touch him otherwise.

"I'll be here," Daylen says. "But...if you want to go to your own room, after, you should."

Alistair is quiet a moment. "Do you want me to do that?"

"No," Daylen says, and this time, the lie is more convincing. He even almost manages to convince himself.

"Then I'd rather come back here." Alistair sounds so certain, it would be easy to let it end there, but Daylen refuses to be that much of a coward.

"You need me to let you do this," Daylen says, and waits for Alistair's nod. "Then I need to know that when you're done, you'll go wherever you want to go, not where you think I want you to go." His attempt at a smile doesn't feel too unnatural. "Deal?"

"Deal," Alistair says on a sigh.

###

When Alistair is gone, Daylen begins to clean up the room. He can't bear the reminder of all the work Alistair put into this evening. Something else that was supposed to be special, that's been ruined by...by...

Daylen isn't even sure who to blame. The archdemon and the darkspawn simply for existing? Duncan for failing to anticipate Loghain's betrayal? Morrigan for doing what Daylen asked her to do, providing what he asked her to provide, and subjecting herself to something she probably wants as little as Alistair?

It's none of them, no matter how much he wants to throw blame anywhere except where it belongs. Daylen knows who's responsible for the disaster this evening has become, and he dwells on all the mistakes he made tonight. If he hadn't let himself be caught by surprise. If he hadn't let the memories of Helisma overwhelm him. If he'd shaken them off faster, or better, or been able to find the words to convince Alistair to let Daylen give Morrigan what she needed. If he'd been able to convince _himself_ , because Alistair knows him too well by half.

This is nowhere near as bad as Kinloch Hold, and yet, it's still closer than Daylen ever wanted anyone he cares about to be. Morrigan and Alistair might have agreed to the ritual, but they shouldn't have had to make a decision like that in the first place. Daylen should never have trapped them in a situation where they had to, not when he knows exactly how it feels to have that trap close around his own leg.

He's so very tired of being powerless when it matters.

From out in the hallway comes the sound of a door opening and closing. The wrong direction to be Morrigan's or Alistair's, but it reminds Daylen of what he's supposed to be doing. Before his mind can decide to torture him any more, he shakes himself and kneels by the fire to clean up the remains of their supper. He packs the dishes into the basket, keeping each movement carefully controlled to avoid breaking anything. He's so focused on that, he forgets about the rose until he picks up the basket and knocks over the cup, spilling the flower and its water on the rug.

Rage boils up like the molten rock he saw in the Deep Roads, incandescent and deadly. Rage like this could fuel a spell powerful enough to level half of Denerim, and if any templar could see him now, it would confirm every fear they ever had of mages. The Veil ripples again, the Fade whispering to him of all the things he could do with its power, and he wants it more than he wants nearly anything else.

Nearly.

His hands don't shake as he picks up the rose and the mug. From the raw power that wants to set the world on fire, he draws a single spark and uses it to reshape the mug into something taller and narrower, most of its weight toward the bottom. The result is ugly and misshapen, but it stands solidly upright when he sets it on the table, and it doesn't tip over when he puts the rose into it. From there, it's easy to draw the spilled water up out of the rug and direct it into the cup. The rose spins slowly as the water flows in around it, turning like a dancer listening to music Daylen can't hear over the roaring in his ears. Caught in a trance, he watches it until it drifts to a stop and settles against the rim of the cup-turned-vase.

He doesn't feel any calmer for the pause, but at least he has himself under control again and the Fade no longer feels a breath away from tearing through the Veil. He's able to summon a servant to take away the basket and act like nothing's wrong when the boy arrives, though he has no idea what he says. Time is skipping and jerking in a too-familiar way, like his mind is trying to cut away pieces of memory, but there's nothing to cut away, nothing that can be singled out and walled off from the rest of him. There's just this awful, unending tension, his heart thudding slow and hard while he counts his breaths and stares out the window at the darkness.

For all that he's listening for it, the opening of the door startles him into a quick, hissed breath, the sound fortunately lost under Alistair's footsteps. Daylen takes a slower breath to gather himself, then turns to face the room just as Alistair finishes closing the door. It means Daylen gets to watch Alistair's shoulders sag for a moment, before they straighten to a posture worthy of any ceremonial guard.

"Well," Alistair says to the door, his voice full of false cheer. "That's done."

Daylen nods, though Alistair can't see him. Talking is out of the question right now, even if that means the room fills with a heavy silence.

After a while, Alistair says softly, "It wasn't so bad."

Nausea chokes off any chance Daylen might be able to speak, but since he doesn't know what to say, it doesn't much matter.

Without turning to face the room, Alistair adds, "It didn't hurt or anything."

The lowest of all possible standards. Daylen feels like he's been struck by lightning, unable to move or breathe or think, caught in a sensation that doesn't need to hurt to be awful. Later, there will be pain enough, but for now, he can't do anything except shake. This shouldn't be happening. This should never have happened, and Daylen should never-

"Daylen," Alistair says.

Daylen jerks and breaks free of his spinning thoughts. He was well and truly lost, too, because he missed the moment when Alistair turned around.

"I'm all right, and so's Morrigan. We're both fine." Alistair is frowning in concern, and that's one more wrong thing in a night already full of them: the last thing he should be doing right now is worrying about Daylen.

And that's what unsticks Daylen's throat, that he's once again making this whole thing worse than it already is. "I'm sorry," he blurts out. "You should never have had to do that, and I'm so sorry I fell apart when you needed me."

Alistair's frown of concern shifts into something else, and he crosses his arms over his chest. He looks...not angry, exactly, but definitely getting there.

Daylen braces himself, grateful for something he understands and can do. If Alistair wants to shout at him, Daylen can give him a target who won't hit back and won't hold it against him later.

"I'm fine," Alistair says, the words clipped. "And it was my choice."

Daylen can accept Alistair yelling at him; he can't accept Alistair taking responsibility for this disaster. "It shouldn't have been."

One of Alistair's hands curls into a fist, gripping the sleeve of his shirt so hard it's a wonder the fabric doesn't tear. He meets Daylen's eyes, and the challenge in his gaze is so unlike him, Daylen blinks.

"I guess I owe you an apology," Alistair says.

The words don't match his expression or his tone. As much as Daylen wants to protest, instead he says warily, "For what?"

Alistair looks away for a moment, his jaw working, and when he looks back, his chin is out. Stubborn or belligerent, Daylen can't tell.

"Now I understand why you were so mad at me," Alistair says.

Self-loathing surges up in Daylen the way anger normally does, but he's all out of anger tonight.

"I didn't realize how annoying that is," Alistair goes on, his eyes narrowed.

That's not any of the words Daylen was expecting, and it pulls him up short. "Annoying?"

"To make a decision and then have someone try to take it away from you." He gives Daylen a look so aggressive it borders on a glare. "To be treated like you're not responsible for what you do."

Daylen opens his mouth, only to close it again when he realizes he doesn't know how to respond. His emotions are such a tangled mess, even he isn't sure which will come out on top in the fight they're currently waging inside him.

The laugh that escapes surprises both of them. It's not much of a laugh, just a sound somewhere between a cough and a snort, but the amusement behind it is real. Fragile, but real.

"Apology accepted," Daylen says, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "And I guess that means I owe you one, too."

Alistair's shoulders had started to relax at Daylen's laugh, but they tense again now. "No, you don't."

"Yes, I do," Daylen says. "Because you're right. It was your decision, and I shouldn't have tried to take responsibility for it." That brief flicker of amusement burns itself out, replaced by aching grief, and he adds in a low voice, "I just hate that you had to make it at all."

"I wish there had been another way," Alistair says, his frown fading. "But if it means maybe we can stop the Blight _and_ survive, then I can live with it."

"That's not saying much," Daylen points out. "People can live with a lot of things."

"I know," Alistair says. "And you live with a lot worse than this, so I don't think I get to complain."

Daylen's stomach turns over, but he keeps his voice level. "This isn't a competition, you know, where the person with the most scars is the only one who's allowed to hurt and everyone else has to be fine with whatever horrible things happened to them." He tries a smile that doesn't feel very convincing. "Besides, if it is a competition, I'm pretty sure Zevran wins."

"It wasn't horrible," Alistair protests. "It wasn't great, but...but it didn't hurt, and Morrigan was pretty nice about it, especially since..." He flushes and looks away, his fist curling tight in the sleeve of his shirt once again. "I, uh, might have needed a little...help."

The thought of Alistair needing that sort of "help" is almost more than Daylen can stand. His stomach heaves, and for a moment, he thinks he's actually going to be sick, his throat working as his mouth floods with saliva.

Something must show on his face, because Alistair adds hastily, "That part didn't hurt, either."

Daylen doesn't know how he keeps his head up and his stomach down, but he does. What he can't control are the words that burst free as soon as it seems safe to unclench his jaw. "If someone put a knife to my throat and said they'd kill me if you didn't suck their cock, it wouldn't matter if it hurt, we'd still call it rape."

Alistair's head jerks back, but his expression is more startled than upset. "I know," he says. He looks for a moment like he's going to say something else, then he lapses into a waiting silence.

"I know it was your choice to make," Daylen says in a voice so harsh and strained he barely recognizes it as his own, "but you had two bad options, and the fact that one was less terrible than the other doesn't make either of them good."

"I know," Alistair says again. He's watching Daylen's face as intently as he's ever done, and it changes the meaning of the words into something else. Something more.

_"I'm here."_

_"I hear you."_

"I've made that choice," Daylen says. "Sometimes I decided to save myself the bruises, and sometimes I decided I'd rather piss them off, and sometimes I just didn't want to let them pretend this was anything other than...what it was." His throat aches like every word is forcing its way out, but he can't seem to stop. "The fact that I got to decide that one thing never made any of it _good_. It just changed what kind of bad it was."

Alistair nods slowly, silently. His fist is still clenched in his shirtsleeve, but his white knuckles are the only sign he might be upset by anything Daylen has said.

"And none of it fucking mattered anyway," Daylen says bitterly. "Sooner or later, they always got what they wanted, from me or from someone else." He smiles humorlessly. "Or from me for someone else."

"Ah." Alistair looks like things are falling into place for him, and Daylen realizes too late how much he just gave away.

It stops the flood of words momentarily, which would be a relief except that makes enough space for Alistair to ask quietly, "Did that happen a lot?"

"What part?" Daylen snaps, though he knows the answer.

"Did you put yourself between the templars and someone else a lot?"

"How do you know I did?" Daylen asks, hoping desperately to hide at least some of what he unintentionally revealed. "Maybe I was just in the way. Or convenient." The last is unfair, an attempt to redirect the conversation by hurting Alistair, and Daylen hates himself for it even as he allows the words to stand.

"I know you," Alistair says. "Maybe sometimes you were just in the way, or...or 'convenient.'" He swallows as if his stomach is as unhappy as Daylen's, but his voice is steady when he goes on. "But sometimes you put yourself in the way, didn't you?"

"I could survive it," Daylen says with the most casual shrug he can manage. "Not everyone could."

"Could they not have?" Alistair asks.

"Maybe I didn't think they should have to." Daylen isn't sure which is stronger, anger or amusement, but he tips his chin in Alistair's direction to acknowledge whose words he's using. "Maybe I didn't think they should have to find out."

"But you should have to?" Anger flashes across Alistair's face before he regains control of his expression and locks it back into neutrality.

"No," Daylen says. He turns halfway toward the window to hide as much of his face as possible without giving the appearance of rejecting Alistair. "But sometimes I thought I could at least make it mean something. If I was going to get hurt, I might as well get hurt for a reason other than someone being a sadistic asshole."

Alistair is quiet for so long, Daylen almost looks at him. Curiosity fights with the need to keep his face hidden, then loses utterly when Alistair finally asks, "Did it work?"

"Sometimes." Daylen gives a short, harsh laugh. "For a while."

"Ah."

Daylen hadn't planned to say more, but he's already told Alistair more than he thought he would ever tell anyone. A part of him wants to tell the rest, and he doesn't think Alistair will break under the weight of hearing it.

"There was a girl," Daylen says. His voice is distant and flat, the way he tries to keep the memories. "She came to the Circle older than most, and she...wasn't really prepared." He cuts off the details of who and what and when, unsure if he can say the words and very sure Alistair doesn't need to hear them. Just because it won't break him doesn't mean he should have to carry even second-hand memories of it.

"I made a deal with one of the knight-lieutenants," Daylen goes on. "He probably thought I wouldn't be able to keep my side of it, not for long, but I did. I kept it for three years."

Alistair makes a sound like he started to speak and then stopped himself. Daylen keeps going and doesn't look at him.

"I thought I was keeping it a secret from her. From Helisma. The girl I was..." He gives a small shake of his head and starts over. "I thought Helisma didn't know I was protecting her, but I found out later someone told her, maybe a year or so after I...started. And then two years after _that_ , it all became a moot point when she asked to be made Tranquil."

Distance vanishes, and suddenly everything is too real, rage and relief and shame as choking as they were when he first realized what had happened. And is he really prepared to tell Alistair how he'd felt, rather than just the bare facts?

"Did she ever say why?" Alistair asks, after a long pause in which Daylen struggles silently with himself.

It's easier to answer a direct question than to say it unprompted. "She said she couldn't let me protect her anymore." Beyond the window, the estate's grounds are dark, but the memory of Helisma's scarred forehead burns bright. "And the first thing I thought was 'thank the Maker.'"

The self-loathing comes through despite him, but maybe it will soften Alistair's disgust to know that Daylen feels the same.

"How old were you?" Alistair asks. His voice has gone from neutral to completely uninflected, almost flat.

"Old enough to know better," Daylen hedges, rather than provide a number. Alistair is perfectly capable of doing math and working backwards to figure out details that will only hurt him to no purpose.

Alistair growls wordlessly, then says, "There's no such thing as old enough for that. Anyone would have been relieved. I know I would've been."

"I doubt that," Daylen murmurs. Alistair would have burnt himself out to protect Helisma, and he would have done it out of kindness rather than stubbornness. "You're a good person."

"So are you," Alistair says. "You can't tell me you protected her for three years and then say you're not a good person."

"I'm stubborn," Daylen corrects. "That's different. I don't let them win, remember?"

"I remember," Alistair says, "but you're stubborn, not stupid. Besides," he adds, before Daylen has a chance to argue the point, "you can't tell me you're here now, fighting the Blight, just because you're too stubborn to let the darkspawn win."

"How do you know?" Daylen asks with a glimmer of amusement.

Alistair snorts. "Because as far as I can tell, you didn't know a single person worth saving when all this started, which means you were doing it for strangers."

 _"No,"_ Daylen doesn't say. _"I know at least one person who's worth it."_

Half against his will, he turns to look at Alistair, who's watching him with a combination of pain and grief and anger. It grates on Daylen, that Alistair is taking on something that isn't his to carry, like he's claiming Daylen's pain for himself.

 _"It's mine,"_ he almost shouts. _"I might not want it, but it's mine. You didn't have to live through it, so you don't get to claim it now."_

But Alistair is already trying to smooth out his expression, as if the only reason he left his face unguarded was because he didn't expect Daylen to see it. Watching him try to put on a neutral mask, Daylen pushes his own anger away. Kinloch Hold didn't teach him much about love, but he knows a little, and he knows that taking on someone else's pain is part of it. And if he looks past the anger, he knows the difference between taking on someone else's pain and trying to take it away from them.

"You," he says quietly. When Alistair blinks at him in confusion, Daylen adds, "You said I didn't know anyone worth fighting the darkspawn for, but I did. I do."

Alistair's mouth forms a soundless "oh" before his whole face flushes scarlet and he ducks his head. "I'm pretty sure you didn't feel that way when you started," he jokes weakly.

"No," Daylen admits, because there's no point in lying. "But I have for a while."

Alistair mumbles something incoherent but obviously embarrassed, his face still tipped downward, and Daylen can't help but smile. It releases some of the coiled tension inside him, and as it does, it takes with it the need to keep his distance from anyone and everyone. Half of him still dreads the thought of being touched, but the other half wants it just as intensely.

Unlike this morning, he has a solution almost as soon as he's recognized the problem. "Do you think you could sleep?" he asks Alistair.

"Probably not," Alistair says, "but we should try."

Which sums up Daylen's feelings nicely: he can't imagine falling asleep right now, but staying up to stare out the window isn't a good idea, either.

They get ready for bed in silence and crawl between the sheets with only the briefest hesitation from Alistair. That hesitation seems to come more from concern for Daylen than his own reluctance, and Daylen answers it by simply holding up the blankets to make it clear he wants Alistair to join him. Alistair is quick to take the offered place, and he presses his back against Daylen's chest with a sigh.

Daylen drapes an arm over him, then forces himself not to tense when Alistair shifts so he can lace their fingers together. It's a position they've slept in before, but it traps Daylen's arm under Alistair's, and that's not something he can tolerate tonight. Having his fingers caught between Alistair's only makes it worse.

He frees his arm as gently as possible and puts it back where it was originally, over top of Alistair's instead of beneath it. Alistair says nothing, just tucks his hand inside Daylen's so their hands mirror their bodies, Daylen's curled around Alistair's.

"Thank you," Daylen whispers against the back of Alistair's neck. He doesn't bother trying to list out all the things he's thanking Alistair for; he doesn't have time before the archdemon arrives.

In answer, Alistair raises Daylen's hand and touches his lips to the knuckles. His breath is warm on the back of Daylen's hand as he whispers, "You're welcome."

They don't speak again, but the place Alistair kissed feels warm for a long time.


End file.
